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IRVING 

THE 
SKETCH BOOK 

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I General Editor 

' I LINDSAY TODD DAMON 

Professor of English, Brown University 



ADDISON AND STEELE — Sir Roger de Coverly Papers — 

Abiott 
ADDISON AND STEELE — Selections from The Tatlcr and 

Iha Spectator — Abbott 
Ameritan Short Stories — Royster 
AUSTtN — Pride and Prejudice — Ward 
BROV^NING — Selected Poems — Reynolds 
Buildeis of Democracy — Greenlaw 
BUNYAN — The Pilgrim's Progress — Latham 
BURKEr— Speech on Conciliation with Collateral Readings — - 

WARk 

BURNi—S elected Poems \ . , marstt 

CARLtLE— EsAay on Burns ^ ^ ^°^- ^^^^SH 

CHAUCER — Selections — Greenlaw 

COLERIDGE — The Ancient Mariner \ ^ ^ , ato^t.^' 

LOWELI^— Fmon of Sir Launfal \ "^ voL— JMOODi 

COOPER — The Last of the Mohicans — Lewis 

COOPER— The Spy — Damon 

DANA— Two Tears Before the Mast — Westcott 

DEFOE — Robinson Crusoe — Hastings 

Democracv Today — Gauss 

DE QUINCEY — The Flight of a Tartar Tribe — French 

DE QUINCEY — Joan of Arc and Selections — Moody 

DICKENS — A Christmas Carol, etc. — Broadl'S 

DICKENS — A Tale of Two Cities — Baldwin 

DICKENS — David Copperfield — Baldwin 

DRYDEN — Palamon and Arcite — CoOK 

ELIOT, GEORGE — Silas Marner — Hancock 

ELIOT, GEORGE — The Mill on the Floss— Wa-rt, 

EMERSON — Essays and Addresses — Heydrick 

English Poems — From Pope, Gray% Goldsmith, Coleridge, 

Byron, Macaulav, Arnold, and others — Scudder 
English Popular Ballads — Hart 
Essays — English and American — Alden 
Familiar Letters, English and American — Greenlaw 
FRANKLIN — Autobiography — Griffen 
French Short Stories — Schweikert 
GASKELL (Mrs.)— Cra?? /or d — Haxcocx 
GOLDSMITH — The Vicar of Wakefield — Morton 
HAWTHORNE — The House of the Seven Gables — Herrick 
HAWTHORNE — Tivice-Told Tales — Herrick and Bruere 
HUGHES — Tom Brown's School Days — de Mille 
IRVING — Life of Goldsmith — Krapp 
IRVING— T/ie Sketch Book— Krat-p 



Wf)t Hake €nslis?f) Clas^sfics;— contimcti 

IRVING — Tales of a Traveller— and. parts of The Sketch Boo/t— I^APP 

LAMB — Essays of Elia — BENEDICT 

LONGFELLOW — Narrative Poewj— PoWELL 

LOWELL — Vision of Sir Launfal—See Coleridge 

M AC AVLAY— Essays on Addison and Johnson — NEWCOMER 

MACAULAY — Essays on Clive amd Hastings — NEWCOMER 

MACAULAY — Goldsmith, Frederic the Great, Madame D'Arblay-^EW- 

COMER ' 

MACAULAY — Essays on Milton and Addison — NEWCOMER j 

MILTON — L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus, and Lycidas — NEiLSOf 
MILTON — Paradise Lost, Books I and II— Farley j 

Modern Plays, A Book of — Coffman J 

Old Testament Narratives — Rhodes ■ 

One Hundred Narrative Poems — Teter 

PALGRAVE — The Golden rreajrwry— NEWCOMER ,' 

PARKMAN— r/je Orego^i r?-aj7— Macdonald 
POE^ — Poe?ns and Tales, Selected — NEWCOMER 

POPE— Homer's Iliad, Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV— Cressy anijIMOODT 
KKADE— The Cloister and the Hearth— BE MiLLE 
RUSKIN — Sesame and Lilies— 'Llt^N 
Russian Short Stories— ScHWEiKERT 
SCOTT— Lady of the Lake— MOOHY 

SCOTT — Lay of the Last Minstrel— MOODY AND WiLLARD 
SCOTT — Marmion—MO0T)Y AND WiLLARD i 

SCOTT— /:;aw/zoe—SlM0NDS 

SCOTT— Qwew/m Durward—SlMONOS ' 

Selections from the Writings of Abraham Lincoln — HAMlbrON 
SHAKSPERE— r/!e Neilson Edition— Edited by W. A. NeilsOI.', 

As You Like It Macbeth 

Hamlet Midsummer-Night's Dre^n 

Henry V Romeo and Juliet 

Julius Caesar The Tempest 

Twelfth Night 
SHAKSPERE — The Merchant of Fewzc«— LOVETT 
SOUTHEY— Z-i/e o/ ATg/jow— Westcott 

STEVENSON — Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey— l^Q-^ABJ) 
STEVENSON — K?dMai>^e(i— Leonard 
STEVENSON — Treasure IslcCnd—'R-RO\DVS 
TENNYSON— 5e/ecied Foew5— Reynolds 
TENNYSON— r/ze Princess— COFEl^X^D 

THACKERAY — English Humorists— CvtHAYFYi AND WATT 
THACKERAY — Henry Esmond— PHEhFS 
THOREAU — PFaWew— Bowman 
Three American Poems — The Raven, Snow-Bound, Miles Standish — 

GREEVER 

Types of the Short Story — Heydrick 

VIRGIL — Aeneid — AllinsoN AND AllinsON ,' 

Washington, Webster, Lincoln, Selections frona — DennEY 

— 1 

SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO ATLANTA NEW YORK 



gCije Hake CngliiSf) ClaSgitS 



REVISED EDITION WITH HELPS TO STUDY 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



BY 

WASHINGTON IRVING 



EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 
BY 

GEORGE PHIEIP KRAPP 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 



SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO ATLANTA NEW YORK 






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00- 



Copyright 1906, 1920, 

by 
Scott, Foresman and Company 

2912.38 



To replace lost coi?7 



PREFACE 

The text of this edition of Irving's Sketch Book is taken, 
with a few changes in punctuation, from the author's final 
revised edition of the work. For permission to use this text 
the editor is indebted to Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, pub- 
lishers of the standard editions of Irving's writings. At- 
tention is specially directed to the story of Peter Klaus, 
printed in an appendix, which, so far as the editor is aware, 
appears here for the first time in an edition of The Sketch 
Book. A comparison of this story with Irving's elaboration 
of it in his Rip Van Winkle offers an interesting approach 
to the study of his method in general. q p k. 



Columbia University, November, 1905. 






CONTENTS 

Intropuction page 

I. Biography of Irving 7 

II. The Sketch Book 25 

III. Bibliography 36 

IV. Table of Dates 37 

THE SKETCH BOOK 

Irving's Preface to the Revised Edition 39 

The Author's Account of Himself 47 

The Voyage 51 

RoscoE 59 

The Wife 68 

Rip Van Winkle 77 

English Writers on America 101 

Rural Life in England. 113 

The Broken Heart 122 

The Art of Bookmaking 129 

A Royal Poet 139 

The Country Church 157 

The Widow and Her Son 164 

A Sunday in London 173 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 176 

The Mutability of Literature 191 

Rural Funerals 205 

The Inn Kitchen 219 

5 



6 THE SKETCH BOOK 

PAGE 

The Specter Bridegroom 222 

Westminster Abbey 241 

Christmas 255 

The Stagecoach 262 

Christmas Eve 270 

Christmas Day 284 

The Christmas Dinner 301 

London Antiques 319 

Little Britain 327 

Stratford-on-Avon 347 

Traits of Indian Character 370 

Philip of Pokanoket 383 

John Bull 403 

The Pride of the Village 417 

The Angler 428 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 439 

L'Envoy 480 

Appendix 483 

Helps to Study 491 

Chronological Table 500 



INTRODUCTION 
I. Biography of Irving 

No American writer is less in need of an introduction 
to American readers than Washington Irving. His Sketch 
Book has made his name as much a household word here as 
Grimm's name in Germany, and long before the American 
boy or girl has begun to read for himself, through the stories 
of Rip Van Winkle and of Ichabod Crane, Irving will have 
become an old and familiar friend. The transition from these' 
well-known tales of The Sketch Book to the many others 
equally entertaining in The Tales of a Traveler, in Brace- 
bridge Hall, and in The Alhambra, and thence from Irving's 
writings to a knowledge of the man himself, is an easy 
one. 

As one reads, the amiability and charm of Irving's charac- 
ter are insensibly felt; one soon learns to regard him with 
the sympathy and to understand him with something of the 
fullness of knowledge which is usually reserved for the poet. 
There are, moreover, no obscurities, no hidden recesses, in 
the personality of Irving that need ever puzzle one. His 
works are a frank and complete revelation of his character. 
No matter how the scene may change, whether he plays 
on the foibles of his countrymen of Manhattan and the 
Hudson Valley, or unfolds his traveler's experiences in Eng- 
land, Spain, Italy, or Germany, one still enjoys the confi- 
dence and companionship of the same gentle, contemplative, 
and lovable nature. 

7 



8 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Irving was born in New York City on April 3, 1783, the 

youngest of eleven children. His father, William Irving, 

_. ^, was of Scotch birth, and his mother was an 

Birth ' 

and Englishwoman. They were married in Eng- 

Parentage j^j^^j ^^ 1761, and came to New York two 
years later, where William Irving engaged in business. Al- 
though Irving's father took no active part in the Revolution- 
ary War, his sympathies are indicated by the name which he 
gave to his youngest child. Washington Irving was born 
just as the last echoes of the war were dying away. The 
Treaty of Paris was signed and the independence of the 
United States was formally acknowledged in 1783. Wash- 
ington was inaugurated when Irving was six years old; and 
we are told that when he came to New York, then the 
capital of the country, to take the oath of office as presi- 
dent, he placed his hands upon the head of his youthful 
namesake and gave him his blessing. 

The America of which Washington took control in 1789 
and in which Irving grew up was an almost 

in living's inconceivably different country from the 
Youth America of today. The settled portions of it 

were still a mere fringe along the Atlantic coast. Eighteen 
years were to pass before Fulton made his first experiments 
with the Clermont on the Hudson, and thirty-nine years 
before work was begun on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, 
the first railroad to cross the Alleghenies. But perhaps the 
most astonishing changes of the past hundred years are 
those which have affected the cities of the country. Away 
from the seaboard there were no cities worthy of the name 
a hundred years ago. What later w^re to be great cities 
of the west — Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and the man}'' 
others — were either mere military and trading posts or else 



INTRODUCTION 9 

undistinguished sites in an unbroken wilderness. Even on 
the coast the settlements were scattered and, compared with 
our modern cities, hardly more than villages. When Irving 
was a boy in New York, the town numbered less than 
twenty-five thousand inhabitants. It covered only the lower 
end, the point, of Manhattan Island. The present Bleecker 
Street marked the northern limits of the little town.^ Be- 
yond that stretched the rocky hill-broken farms of the 
Dutch settlers — the Wolfert Webbers whom fate was to 
make rich in spite of themselves. The fashionable prome- 
nade was then in Battery Park, now a little breathing spot 
in a crowded tenement district; and William Street, in 
which Irving's father lived — now a region of tall office build- 
ings — was then an uptown residence street. 

Yet the New York of Irving's boyhood was an interesting 
place. The life of the city was then much simpler and more 
homogeneous, perhaps much saner, than it is today. There 
was, moreover, opportunity for the kind of adventure that 
boyhood delights in. Nowadays, to escape crowded streets 
and noisy cars we must make a journey of several hours, but 
then the country was near at hand. Irving was by nature 
something of a wanderer and explorer, and the half-wild re- 
gions of Harlem, and the shores of the river and sound, not 
yet profaned by the picnic parties which good roads, cars, 
and boats induce, offered an inexhaustible field for adven- 
ture. The harbor, also, was an unfailing source of interest 
and excitement, as Irving himself tells us in the opening 
chapter of The Sketch Book. 

One must not look, then, for the influence of a great 
cosmopolitan city, like the New York of today, in Irving's 

1. little town. Cf. Charles Burr Todd, The Story of New York, page 
483. 



10 THE SKETCH BOOK 

life. Such a city did not then exist, and it was perhaps for- 
tunate for Irving that it did not. The more familiar social 
life of his time, with its greater opportunity for the free play 
of individuality, was undoubtedly more favorable to the de- 
velopment of his genius than the heterogeneous and, at the 
same time, monotonous society of the modern city would 
have been. The essence of the Knickerbocker History, the 
feeling for country and landscape in Rip Van Winkle and in 
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, must have been realized in 
Irving's experience long before he thought of putting pen 
to paper. In his many wanderings about the town and in 
and out of the snug retreats in which odd characters flour- 
ished, Irving was insensibly gathering materials for the 
works of his later years, and in his longer journeyings by 
land and water he was unconsciously feeding the spirit that 
was afterwards to make him the wise and observant traveler 
that he became. 

One of these early voyages deserves some special atten- 
tion. In his seventeenth year he paid a summer visit to his 
sister, who lived near Albany. In 1800 the best way to 
reach Albany was by boat on the Hudson River. Nowa- 
days the distance is made by steamboat in less than twelve 
hours, and by rail in less than four hours ; but then it was a 
long voyage by sail, the length of it depending on wind and 
weather, and passengers selected their boat and made prep- 
arations for their comfort with as much circumspection as 
one would now employ if about to cross the ocean. This 
journey made known to Irving for the first time the beauties 
of the river with which his name is inseparably linked. The 
depth and vividness of the impressions he received at this 
time may be seen from the following description written 
many years afterwards: 



INTRODUCTION 11 

What a time^ of intense delight was that first sail through 
the Highlands! I sat on the deck as we slowly tided along 
at the foot of those stern mountains, and gazed with wonder 
and admiration at those stern cliffs impending far above me, 
crowned with forests, wilih eagles sailing and screaming 
around them; or listened to the unseen stream dashing 
down precipices; or beheld rock, and tree, and cloud, and 
sky reflected in the glassy stream of the river. And then 
how solemn and thrilling the scene as we anchored at night 
at the foot of these mountains, clothed with overhanging 
forests, and everything grew dark and mysterious; and I 
heard the plaintive note of the whippoorwill from the moun- 
tain-side, or was startled now and then by the sudden leap 
and heavy splash of the sturgeon. 

. . . But of all the scenery of the Hudson, the Kaats- 
kill Mountains had the most witching effect on my boyish 
imagination. Never shall I forget the effect upon me of the 
first view of them predominating over a wide extent of coun- 
try, part wild, woody, and rugged; part softened away into 
all the graces of cultivation. As we slowly floated along, I 
lay on the deck and watched them through a long summer's 
day, undergoing a thousand mutations under the magical 
effects of atmosphere; sometimes seeming to approach, at 
other times to recede; now almost melting into hazy dis- 
tance, now burnished by the setting sun, until, in the eve- 
ning, they printed themselves against the glowing sky in 
the deep purple of an Italian landscape. 



The year after his first trip up the Hudson, Irving began 

the study of the law. His preliminary education had been 

J . very irregular. In childhood he had attended 

as a "dame school," and later had prepared for 

Student entrance into Columbia College. Two of his 

brothers had attended this college and had been graduated 

from it. Irving, however, either through negligence or 

1. What a time, etc. Cf. Life, by P. M. Irving, Volume I, page 19. 



12 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dislike of all formal study, never entered. In after life 
he always regretted the omission of this formal discipline in 
his education, for he thought it deprived him of an advan- 
tage he was never able to make up in other ways. With no 
more liking for the routine of the law than for that of the 
school, Irving nevertheless gave his attention to the former 
subject for the next few years. Before he could be admitted 
to the bar, however, his health broke down, and in 1804 it 
was determined to send him to Europe on a voyage of re- 
covery. Thus, though in a way far different from that he 
had imagined, a long cherished wish was to be realized. 

The voyage across the water was made in May and June 
of 1804, and proved to be the thing Irving most needed. 
When, after a passage of six weeks, he left the 
Journej'to ship at Bordeaux, his health was very much 
Europe improved. For a year and a half he w^as a 

traveler and sight-seer, visiting various places in France, 
Italy, and England, meeting many famous people, and pass- 
ing through many exciting and whimsical adventures. He 
soon developed the true traveler's spirit and took the buffets 
and the favors of fortune with equal good will. During most 
of these journey ings he kept a diary in which he noted his 
opinions and observations and described the adventures of 
a traveler's life. Perhaps the most exciting of these ex- 
periences was an attack b}^ Italian pirates. He was passen- 
ger on a ship bound from Genoa to Messina for a cargo of 
wine, and when several days out, the ship was attacked by 
pirates, off the coast of Italy near the Island of Elba. 
Though the affair proved a bloodless one, it was not unat- 
tended with danger. The description^ of it reads almost 
like an extract from one of Irving's own banditti stories in 

1. The description. Cf. Life, by P. M. Irving, Volume I, page 65 ff. 



INTRODUCTION 13 

The Tales of a Traveler, and often in writing those stories 
he must have drawn upon his early experiences in Italy. 
Fortunately no more serious adventure than this of the 
pirates occurred to interrupt the journeyings of the youth- 
ful traveler. He continued on his way through France and 
Italy, passing the latter part of his stay abroad in England. He 
took ship for America in January, 1806, and, after a rough 
voyage of over nine weeks, arrived safely at New York. 

As soon as he had settled down in his old place, Irving 
again took up the study of the law, and after several months, 

. , . . in November, 1806, was admitted to the bar 

Admission ' ' 

to of New York. His admission, however, was 

the Bar ^^^ more to the good nature of his examiners 

than to the adequacy of his preparation; for we may well 
suppose that what little legal learning had found its way 
into his brain before his departure had been quite crowded 
out by the many new experiences of his two years abroad. 
Even after his admission to the bar he does not appear to 
have taken much interest in his profession. To his natural 
dislike of the dry routine of business there was added the 
further distraction of an active social life. He had many 
graces of nature and of manner; his disposition was frank 
and kindly, and wherever he was known he was liked. His 
letters of this period from Richmond and Baltimore and 
Washington show with what ease and pleasure he took his 
place in the best social life of the community in which he 
happened to find himself. 

About this time Irving made his first attempts of any 

importance at literature. Together with his brother William 

and a young friend and relative, James K. 

a magnn i Paulding, he projected a Spectator-like pe- 
riodical called Salmagundi. The first number of this peri- 



14 THE SKETCH BOOK 

odical appeared in January, 1807, and nineteen other num- 
bers were issued at irregular intervals between that time and 
the appearance of the last number in January, 1808. The 
purpose of the periodical, as announced by the editors in the 
first number, was impudent enough when we consider their 
age and inexperience: "Our purpose is simply to instruct 
the young, reform the old, correct the town, and castigate 
the age; this is an arduous task, and therefore we under- 
take it with confidence." The essays, broadly humorous 
and satirical, had the high spirits and unrestraint of youth. 
They secured for the writers a considerable local popularity, 
but they were ephemeral in character, and Irving himself 
was soon quite willing to have them forgotten. 

Irving's second literary venture brought him a wider and 
more lasting fame than the Salmagundi papers. In 1809 he 
published his Knickerbocker's History of New 
Knickerbocker York. This is a burlesque history of New 
History York, purporting to have been made up from 
the writings of a Dutch antiquary, Diedrich Knickerbocker. 
It undoubtedly ranks as Irving's masterpiece of humor. Sir 
Walter Scott, who praised the book warmly, thought he saw 
in it great resemblance to the satire of Swift. The Knicker- 
bocker History, however, is without the deep seriousness of 
Swift's satire; like Salmagundi, it shows more of the vi- 
vacity and playfulness of youth than of the severity of the 
indignant satirist. At the time of the appearance of the 
book it was severely criticized by many of the Dutch fami- 
lies in New York, who felt personally aggrieved at the lu- 
dicroMs figures their Dutch ancestry made in its pages. And 
in fact there was slight justification for such treatment of 
the burgher^ of New Amsterdam. Irving chose to present 
the unjustly exaggerated view of Dutch character that had 
long been traditional in British literature. In England, 



INTRODUCTION IS 

where the memory of Admiral Von Tromp's proud boast — 
that he had swept the English channel with a broom at his 
masthead — had driven the English to exaggerated satire to 
gain their self-respect, such a treatment of the subject as 
Irving's would have had point; but in America no more in- 
offensive and industrious race of people than the Dutch 
was to be found in all the Colonies. But neither satire nor 
history was the main object of the Knickerbocker History. 
Irving, in 1848, thus outlines the purpose of the book: 

It was to embody the traditions of our city in an amusing 
form; to illustrate its local humors, customs, and peculiari- 
ties; to clothe home scenes and places and familiar 
names with those imaginative and whimsical associations so 
seldom met with in our new country, but which live like 
charms and spells about the cities of the old world, bind- 
ing the heart of the native inhabitant to his home. 

How well the book accomplished this purpose can be seen 
by a glance at its present-day effects. In New York the 
Knickerbocker legend has worked itself into the very fiber 
of the people. Allusions to it are familiarly made by many 
who have never read a line of Irving. The name itself, by 
an odd change, has become a synonym for aristocracy. In a 
thousand ways the legend has preserved traditions and senti- 
ments that otherwise would have been speedily lost. It lives 
like a spell, binding the heart of the native American to his 
country; it has become itself a part of the country. 

The Knickerbocker History was revised and brought to 

completion beneath the shadow of Irving's greatest sorrow. 

Matilda Hoffman, to whom he was engaged 

Miss to be married, died after a brief illness in her 

Hoffman eighteenth year. Her memory always lingered 
in his mind, ready to be called forth by the slightest occa- 



16 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sion. He never again thought of marriage, and never ac- 
customed himself to speak Miss Hoffman's name. 

The next few years after the appearance of the Knicker- 
bocker History saw nothing new from Irving's pen. His 
natural indolence must explain this, for his 

Business law practice made slight enough demands 
upon his time. In 1810 he was made a silent 
partner in a hardware business which was conducted by his 
brothers. This connection, though at first the cause of much 
anxiety to him, was finally the making of his literary career; 
for the business affairs of the firm having become embar- 
rassed, in 1815 Irving was sent to a branch house in Liver- 
pool for the purpose of putting things in order. For three 
years he labored over the uncongenial details of business. 
But the affairs of the firm passed from bad to worse, and 
despite the brothers' best efforts, in 1818 they were finally 
driven to bankruptcy. In this apparent misfortune, how- 
ever, there lay a blessing for Irving; his undisciplined na- 
ture always needed a strong incentive to work, and in the 
necessity of making a living he found this incentive. Leav- 
ing Liverpool, he went up to London with no other defense 
against the hostility of fortune than his pen. 

The first fruit of Irving's activity in London was his most 

famous work — The Sketch Book. The book was written 

under numerous and depressing difficulties. 

The Irving was far from home, with no friend to 

turn to for advice or comfort, and with no 

prospect of any certain income. He felt keenly, also, the 

fact that his friends at home had little faith in his ability 

to gain a livelihood by means of his pen. To them it seemed 

madness when Irving refused an unimportant government 

position at Washington which would have given him an as- 



INTRODUCTION 17 

siired income but would probably have closed the way 
entirely to any further literary advance. In the face of these 
difficulties Irving went bravely to work upon the project of 
The Sketch Book. The book took the form of a collection of 
detached essays. The first plan was to issue the work in num- 
bers and in America only, under the pen-name of Geoffrey 
Crayon. The first number appeared in May, 1819, and 
contained The Author's Account of Himself, The Voyage, 
Roscoe, The Wife, and Rip Van Winkle. The second num- 
ber appeared several months later and contained four essays: 
English Writers on America, Rural Life in England, The 
Broken Heart, and The Art of Bookmaking. The third 
number also contained four pieces: A Royal Poet, The 
Country Church, The Widow and Her Son, and The Boar's 
Head Tavern. The fourth number contained The Mutabil- 
ity of Literature, The Specter Bridegroom, and Rural Fu- 
nerals. The fifth number consisted of the Christmas Essays, 
and the sixth contained The Pride of the Village, The Leg- 
end of Sleepy Hollow, and John Bull. The seventh and last 
number appeared in September, 1820, and contained West- 
minster Abbey, Stratford- on- Avon, Little Britain, and The 
Angler. In the collected edition of the essays, several addi- 
tions were made, notably Traits of Indian Character and 
Philip of Pokanokct, which were inserted in the second vol- 
ume of the first English edition. 

The success of The Sketch Book was immediate and gen- 
eral. The pen-name of Geoffrey Crayon could not hide the 
fact that the Knickerbocker History of New 
York and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow were 
written by the same hand, and to the liking for the sketches 
themselves was added all Irving's earlier popularity. The 
books sold well and relieved their author of the worry and 



18 THE SKETCH BOOK 

trouble of immediate need. But better than this, their suc- 
cess restored to him some of the confidence in himself which 
the anxieties of the past few years had robbed him of. Sir 
Walter Scott offered him the editorship of a new periodical 
publication about to be established in Edinburgh; and 
Irving, though he declined the offer because he felt himself 
unfit for the regular routine of such an occupation, was very 
much gratified at this renewed expression of good will on 
the part of the great author. The kind words of his inti- 
mate friends and the generous appreciation of the critics in 
America revived him and gave him incentive to renewed 
effort. His fine sensitiveness to praise and blame shows 
clearly in the way in which he took the news of his success. 
The following extract is from a letter written to a friend in 
New York after the appearance of several numbers of The 
Sketch Book: 

The manner in^ which the work has been received, and 
the eulogiums that have been passed upon it in the American 
papers and periodical works, have completely overwhelmed 
me. They go far, jar beyond my most sanguine expecta- 
tions; and, indeed, are expressed with such peculiar warmth 
and kindness as to affect me in the tenderest manner. The 
receipt of your letter, and the reading of some of the criti- 
cisms this morning, have rendered me nervous for the whole 
day. I feel almost appalled by such success, and fearful 
that it cannot be real, or that it is not fully merited, or that 
I shall not act up to the expectations that may be formed. 
We are whimsically constituted beings. I had got out of 
conceit of all that I had written, and considered it very 
questionable stuff, and now that it is so extravagantly be- 
praised, I begin to feel that I shall not do as well again. 
However, we shall see as we get on. As yet I am extremely 

1. The manner in, etc. Cf. Life, by P. M. Irving, Volume I, pages 
330-331. 



INTRODUCTION 19 

irregular and precarious in my fits of composition. The 
least thing puts me out of the vein, and even applause flur- 
ries me, and prevents my writing; though, of course, it will 
ultimately be a stimulus. 

I hope you will not attribute all this sensibility to the 
kind reception I have met with to an author's vanity. I 
am sure it proceeds from very different sources. Vanity 
could not bring the tears into my eyes, as they have been 
brought by the kindness of my countrymen. I have felt 
cast down, blighted, and broken-spirited, and these sudden 
rays of sunshine agitate even more than they revive me. 

After the first six numbers of The Sketch Book had ap- 
peared in America, Irving was driven by the appearance of 
various unauthorized editions to publish them in England. 
The first attempt, as he himself relates, came to grief 
through the failure of his publisher; but finally, aided by 
the good words of Walter Scott, the book was accepted 
by Murray, the most distinguished of English publishers. 
Its success in England was as great as it had been in 
America. Twice the publisher voluntarily added one hun- 
dred guineas to the sum which he had agreed to pay for 
the book. We, as Americans, however, have special reason 
to feel gratified that the success of The Sketch Book was 
first won in America. In that day, American critical judg- 
ment depended only too often upon British example, and it 
is a pleasure to know that our first national writer of im- 
portance was accepted by us without waiting upon foreign 
opinion. 

The next few years after the appearance of The Sketch 
Book were years of wandering. The autumn and winter of 
1820-21 were spent on the Continent, chiefly in Paris. Here 
Irving formed a firm friendship with Thomas Moore, the 
poet; and indeed we should expect sympathy of spirit be- 



20 • THE SKETCH BOOK 

tween the man who wrote The Broken Heart and the author 
of the Irish Melodies. After his return to London, in Jan- 
uary, 1822, Irving published Bracebridge 
Hall and Tales Hall, first in America, and in May of the same 
of a Traveler y^^j. jjj England. In method the book re- 
sembles The Sketch Book; it is a miscellaneous collection 
of essays and short stories suggested by the experience of 
travel or elaborated from the outlines of things that had long 
been ripening in the author's memory. Though it did not 
have the charm of novelty, it was well received in both 
countries. Again in 1822 Irving was on the Continent, trav- 
eling through France and Germany. It was on this journey, 
while detained by illness at Mayence, that he wrote the in- 
troduction to a volume which takes its title from the circum- 
stances of its composition — The Tales of a Traveler. The 
body of the book was written during the winter of 1823-24, 
in Paris, though the completed volume was not published 
until his return to England, in 1824. Despite Irving's own 
special liking for The Tales of a Traveler and despite the 
fact that it contains some of the author's best work, it was 
coolly received by the public. The reason for this is evident. 
The three books that he had so far published in England — 
The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, and The Tales of a 
Traveler — were of a kind. They were all books made up of 
pleasant descriptive and reflective essays and humorous 
short stories ; they all breathed the same quiet air of kindly, 
though not very vigorous, interest in the life of the world the 
author knew. Something of this was accepted eagerly and 
more was taken willingly; but Irving was guilty of the error 
of feeding to satiety the taste he had aroused, and his read- 
ers murmured at the same dish continually set before them. 
Irving was not slow in seeing that the field he had hither- 



INTRODUCTION 21 

to been cultivating was worked out. He determined to place 
himself in entirely new, fresh surroundings 
1 em pain ^^^ ^^ occupy himself with an entirely new 
sort of work. In 1826 he went to Spain, in which country 
he lived for three years. This period he spent in visiting 
the various famous places of the land and in much close 
reading of historical books and manuscripts in the chief 
Spanish libraries. The results of these historical studies 
appeared in the publication of his Life of Columbus in 1828, 
The Conquest of Granada in 1829, The Companions of 
Columbus in 1831, and, as a final lighter postlude to these 
more serious woiks. The Alhambra in 1832. 

The year of the publication of The Alhambra closed a 
period in Irving's life. In that year, after an unbroken ab- 
sence of seventeen years, he came home to New York. How 
eagerly he had always looked forward to this return is made 
very evident in his letters throughout these seventeen years. 
He had never had the slightest thought of a permanent resi- 
dence abroad, and now that success had 

The Return brought him an honorable name and an as- 
Home 7 . , . . , . , 1 . r, 1 

sured mcome, he rejoiced m them chieny be- 
cause they helped him to realize what had always been his 
first hope. After the disturbances of the home-coming were 
over and after several extensive trips through the South 
and the West, sections of the country which had been al- 
most unbroken wilderness when he left America but which 
were now dotted with cities and towns, he purchased the 
little Dutch cottage on the banks of the Hudson near Tarry- 
town, called by its former owner Wolfert's Roost, that is in 
English, Wolfert's Rest, but known to us better by the 
name which Irving gave it — Sunnyside. Here he passed the 
rest of his life with the exception of the four years from 



22 THE SKETCH BOOK 

1842 to 1846, during which time he served as minister to 
Spain. 

During Irving's residence at Madrid no diplomatic com- 
plications which might have tested his political wisdom 
arose. The distractions of his position were sufficient, how- 
ever, to prevent him from carrying out any of his literary 
plans, and, at the close of his four years, he was glad to 
return to his home on the banks of the Hudson. These 
years at Sunnyside were serene and happy ones. Irving was 
the foremost man of letters in America, and his home be- 
came the natural center of all the literary life of the coun- 
try. He was looked upon as both the founder and the pa- 
triarch of American letters. 

^ ^ ,„ , He was not, however, content to rest in honor, 

Last Works ' ' ' 

and and as a result of his last labors, he published. 

Death jj^ 1849, Oliver Goldsmith, A Biography, and 

a Life of Mahomet. His last work was a Life of Washing- 
ton. He had been engaged upon this task for many years, 
and he intended that the work should stand as the most 
lasting monument to his memory. The first volume was 
published in 1855; ill-health delayed the completion of the 
second volume, and it was not until four years later that it 
was ready for publication. It came as a fitting close to a 
life of unceasing industry. After a long and trying sick- 
ness, borne with great equanimity of spirit, Irving died on 
November 28, 1859. 

As has already been remarked, the elements of Irving's 
character were comparatively simple ones. One does not 

. ^ , . , think of applying the term great to him. He 
An Estimate . , , , 

of Irving's was not a profound thmker, nor was he an m- 

Character fluence of much importance in the public life 
of his day. The desultory nature of his reading, except in 



INTRODUCTION 23 

the field of Spanish history, prevented him from becoming 
anything better than an indifferent scholar; his knowledge, 
as compared with that of Longfellow and Lowell, was 
neither wide nor deep. Nor was the quality of his mind 
strikingly original. He started no new literary movements, 
but followed, sometimes even too meekly, in the paths that 
had been trodden out by his predecessors. 

Yet granting all this, there remains a high place for Irving 
in our esteem. As the first American man of letters, he 
must always occupy an important position in the annals of 
American literature. But Irving's importance is more than 
historical ; he is more than a name and a date. The interest 
and charm which his writing had in the beginning it still has, 
and by the judgment of time his works have won the right 
to be called classic. Moreover, our affection for the man is 
intimately blended with our appreciation of his gifts. Both 
in his life and in his writings Irving shows a peculiarly lov- 
able disposition. An unfailing kindliness of nature was one 
of his main characteristics. There was nothing of self-asser- 
tion in him or of contempt either for the wishes or the weak- 
nesses of his fellow-men. This side of his character is well 
illustrated by an action of his later years. After his return 
to America he was engaged upon a work which was to treat 
of the Spanish invasion of Mexico. He had gathered much 
material and had already begun the actual composition of 
the book when his attention was called to the fact that a 
young man named Prescott, hitherto unknown to him, was 
engaged upon the same subject. After determining the seri- 
ousness of his rival and his ability to accomplish the task 
he had set himself, Irving generously relinquished the sub- 
ject to the younger man. Throughout his long and varied 
literary life, we do not know that Irving ever cherished a 



24 THE SKETCH BOOK 

single enmity or that he was ever involved in any of the 
petty quarrels which disfigure the lives of so many men of 
letters 

A second main characteristic of the man was delicacy and 
refinement of feeling. Irving never cared to mix in politics, 
although he lived in some of the most exciting periods of 
American political history; nor could he apply himself with 
much success to the daily concerns of a business life. His 
sense of personal repugnance toward sordid details was al- 
ways stronger than his sense of the good to be accomplished 
through attention to them. This attitude toward the affairs 
of daily life is not, to be sure, very unusual, nor is it gen- 
erally to be commended. The justification of it in Irving is 
to be found in a real, not an affected, sensitiveness of nature. 
Irving's temperament was that of a poet, of one who cares 
more to observe the struggle of life than to mix in its con- 
fusion and turmoil. His work is characterized by beauty 
rather than power; it charms us into a mood of genial ac- 
quiescence rather than stirs us to action. For, however 
much he may have felt the deeper mysteries of existence in 
his heart, in his writings Irving always preferred to deal 
with the play of gentler feelings and emotions 

As a corrective of what might otherwise have proved a 
cloying sweetness of nature, Irving was possessed of a third 
main characteristic — ^an unfailing sense of the humorous and 
whimsical in life. The world was not tragic to him; neither 
was it entirely happy. It was a place of mixed good and 
evil, and not the least of the good was the ability to sym- 
pathize with human nature in its lighter and unheroic as- 
pects. It is his humor that makes Irving one of the sanest 
of companions, and it is his humor which gives us today 
the most real sense of his vanished personality. His own 



INTRODUCTION 25 

confession of his aim, which in his life he realized and in his 
writings he continues to realize, deserves to be quoted here 
in conclusion: 

If,^ however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of 
evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile 
the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can now and 
then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent viev/ of human nature, and make my 
reader more in good humor with his fellow beings and him- 
self, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in 
vain. 

II. The Sketch Book 

Irving's fame rests most securely upon four volumes of 

his earlier work: The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, The 

Tales of a Traveler, and The Alhambra. The most widely 

read of these four books and the most popular has always 

been the earliest, The Sketch Book. In some respects this 

is unfortunate, since The Sketch Book, taken as a whole, is 

n ■^. ■ r inferior to either The Tales of a Traveler or 
Criticism of ^ 

The Sketch The Alhambra. In the first place, certain 
^°°^ numbers of the volume show evident marks of 

immaturity such as are not to be found in the later works. 
Among the least admirable of these early efforts must be 
counted the half-dozen sentimentally pathetic tales of which 
The Wife, The Pride of the Village, and Philip of Pokanoket 
are typical examples. When The Sketch Book first appeared 
in America these were regarded as among the most success- 
ful numbers, and Irving was thought to be particularly effec- 
tive in depicting scenes of pathos. Nowadays we cannot but 

1. If, etc. See page 318. 



26 THE SKETCH BOOK 

feel that in these tales there is often a note of insincerity, a 
pumping up of the emotions for the sake of pathetic effect. 
In diction, also, these stories have a swelling rotundity and 
artificiality of phrasing, a taint of fine writing, that is quite 
different from Irving's usual plain and unaffected manner. 
One need only compare with these sentimental tales the sim- 
ple, direct passage describing Rip's return to his desolate 
and abandoned home, to realize the difference between Irv- 
ing's true and his false pathos. Indeed it might be said that 
pure pathos was beyond Irving's power, that only when his 
pathos is blended with humor is he worthy of himself. 

A second group of essays which one accepts with some 
reservation is that which is concerned with antiquarian sub- 
jects. Typical examples are the essay Rural Funerals and 
much of the description of Christmas in the Bracebridge es- 
says. In taking up subjects of this kind Irving was per- 
haps following the lead of his friend Sir Walter Scott, who 
was not only poet and writer of romances but also an an- 
tiquary of great learning. But Irving was not learned, nor 
was he interested in antiquarian research for its own sake, 
as his description of the parson at Bracebridge Hall and his 
frequent gibes at black-letter learning bear witness. His 
antiquarian information interested him, and it interests us 
now, only when it is made the means of exhibiting the whim- 
sicalities of his characters. When it does so, as for example 
in the charming Boar's Head Tavern essay, we feel that 
Irving is in his true vein. 

Again, nowhere in Irving's writings are the traces of his 
. , literary discipleship, the traditions upon which 

Literary he formed himself, so evident as in parts of 

Models T^^g Sketch Book. In structure, in style, and 

even in sentiment, such essays as Roscoe, The Wife, The 



INTRODUCTION 21 

Broken Heart, A Royal Poet, The Widow and Her Son, and 
The Pride of the Village, are rather slavish copies of Irving's 
literary models, Addison and Goldsmith. Likewise in many 
of the numbers descriptive of English customs and local- 
ities, such as The Country Church, Westminster Abbey, 
Christmas, and the other essays of that group, we have 
essentially the method of Addison, differing only in that it 
is applied by one who stands outside the English life which 
he describes. Squire Bracebridge is obviously of the family 
of Sir Roger de Coverley, and Bracebridge Hall, which is 
largely an elaboration of the Christmas essays of The Sketch 
Book, is clearly under the same influences. All of these 
sketches and essays show literary taste and exquisite sensi- 
tiveness to literary impressions, but no more. It was this 
characteristic of Irving's work that led Hazlitt, the English 
critic, to say, a short time after the appearance of The Sketch 
Book, that Irving's writings were "very good copies^ of our 
British essayists and novelists, which may be very well on 
the other side of the water, or as proof of the capabilities of 
the national genius, but which might be dispensed with here, 
where we have to boast of the originals." It cannot be denied 
that Hazlitt's criticism, though exaggerated, is in some de- 
gree true. Parts of The Sketch Book are plain copies of the 
"British essayists and novelists," and it may be well to pause 
for a moment to see if we may find some explanation of this 
dependence upon British models of the eighteenth century. 
In American literature Irving occupies a unique position 

as the first of the line of American men of 
Amencan 

Literature letters. Before his time and until within a 
before Irving f^^ years of the Revolutionary War, men had 
been too busy clearing farms and building homes to spend 

1. very good copies, etc. Cf. The Spirit of the Age, page 405. 



28 THE SKETCH BOOK 

much time on the leisurely pursuits of art and letters. There 
had been historians like Bradford and Winslow, and there 
had been great preachers like Cotton Mather and Jonathan 
Edwards. But often the work of pre-Revolutionary writers 
is crude in form and narrow in subject-matter; we read the 
writings of this period now with little beyond the antiqua- 
rian's pleasure in their quaintness and remoteness, or the 
historian's interest in the information to be derived from 
them. In a somewhat later period, the intellectual stir 
which immediately preceded and accompanied the Revolu- 
tion bore fruit in a plentiful yield of state papers, pamphlets, 
speeches, and even poetry. Some of it is extremely vigorous, 
and in its time it was effective. But, as is almost always 
true of literature written for a special time or occasion, very 
little of it has outlived the period of its production. With the 
possible exception of Woolman the Quaker's Journal, the 
only American book written before the close of the Revolu- 
tionary War that deserves consideration by reason of its 
literary excellence is Franklin's Autobiography. Yet nothing 
was further from Franklin's intention, when he wrote his 
Autobiography, than the composition of a work of literature. 
Franklin was a statesman, scientist, philanthropist, all more 
or less professedly and consciously; but he has come to be 
counted among men of letters almost by accident. Indeed, 
the Autobiography, on which his literary fame chiefly rests, 
was not printed until 1817, many years after Franklin's 
death. The first writer in America who deliberately chose 
letters as a profession and made his living by his pen, was 
Charles Brockden Brown, a moderately successful journalist 
and novelist of the first decade of the nineteenth century. 
But Brown's work did not have sufficient power or originality 
to draw together and give form to the incipient literary ten- 



INTRODUCTION 29 

dencies of the country. Irving, the first American man of 
letters to gain fame abroad, was also the first to gain a lasting 
reputation and following at home. Cooper and Bryant were 
his near successors; but all the other names in the first 
flowering period of American literature — Longfellow, Whit- 
tier, Hawthorne, Holmes, Lowell — came into prominence 
only after his fame had reached its zenith. 

In Amicrican literature before Irving's day there was, then, 
little to serve him as models, and the natural tendency for 
him was to turn to British literature. Now in British litera- 
_ . ture the most interesting and important single 

Literature in event of the first twenty-five years of Irving's 
Irving's Period uf^ ^^^ the appearance of the Lyrical Ballads, 
by Wordsworth and Coleridge, in 1798. These ballads are 
important because, in a way, they sound the keynote of 
much that w^as to follow. The poetry of Wordsworth, Cole- 
ridge, Southey, Byron, Shelley, and Keats, the six greatest 
names in the English literature of the first half of the 
nineteenth century, is a fuller development of the movement 
to which the Lyrical Ballads gave the first clear and intel- 
ligible expression. Yet of these writers and the things for 
which they stand, there is practically no trace in Irving. 
Why did not Irving follow the lead of the Lyrical Ballads? 
Why did he not write verse, the predominating form in 
British literature in his day, instead of prose? Or, if his 
nature was not attuned to verse, why did not the creative 
imagination in him take the form of the romantic novel,^ as 

1. romantic novel. Irving's one attempt at novel writini?, the 
Buckthorne stories of The Tales of a Traveler, was more in the spirit ol 
the eighteenth century novel as represented by Fielding, or parts of 
Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, than the romantic novel of Scott. This 
attempt had a characteristic ending. The volume simply broke to 
pieces in Irving's hands, leaving him the fragments of which it was 
composed — that is, a series of more or less detached essays. 



30 THE SKETCH BOOK 

it did in Scott? Why, in short, was Irving a generation o 
more behind the times, as compared with British literature 
in his literary ideals and aspirations; why were his model 
Addison, Steele, Goldsmith, and the other masters of prost 
in the early and mid-eighteenth century? The answer is ii 
part personal. Irving's thought early took the form of th( 
literary essay, and this form he really never outgrew. Nov 
the essay was a far more important feature of eighteentl 
than of early nineteenth century literature. And, not un 
naturally, when Irving attached himself to a school o:'; 
British literature, he chose one that had already expressed 
itself, not one that was just struggling toward expression' 
A further reason may be found in the fact that it took time 
for the new current of thought to reach America. Removed! 
as he was from the centers of literary discussion and thought/ 
Irving suffered the penalty which every provincial writer! 
must suffer by the very fact of his provincialism ; he was not 
in the main current of the tendencies of his times. And 
until American literature had grown strong enough to stand 
on its own legs, independent enough to disregard British 
models, it could not be otherwise. The matter is mentioned 
not as any fault of Irving's, but as something inevitable in 
the circumstances. 

But the numbers of The Sketch Book which are subject to 
these criticisms are after all not many. Irving was a good 
deal more than an imitator of the British essayists, and there 
is much in the volume that has a perennial freshness and 
charm all its own. Nothing like Rip Van Winkle or The 
Legend of Sleepy Hollow had appeared in English litera- 
ture before Irving, or has appeared since, and in these tales 
and many other numbers of The Sketch Book, an individual 
and attractive personality revealed itself. The secret of 



INTRODUCTION 31 

Irving's charm lies largely in his humor. As a humorist he 
is always at his best, and fortunately humor is seldom 
wanting in his writing. Perhaps we should not call Irving's 
humor characteristically American. The first notable Ameri- 
can humorist was Benjamin Franklin; and, in the mock- 
serious extravagance of some of his sayings, we get fore- 
tastes of our latest and greatest humorist, Mark Twain. 
Irving's humor, in perfect consistency with his character, 
depends rather upon the play of shades of feeling for its 
effects: it is quiet and refined, sly and half-concealed. At 
times there is also a strain of mild satire mingled with it, 
as for example, in The Author's Account of Himself, where 
he speaks of the withering influence of the local magnate, or 
in such essays as Little Britain, John Bull, and The Art of 
Bookmaking. In his humorous descriptions of people, Irving 
emphasizes the quaintness and oddities of his characters. 
His persons are not often very real; they are the creations 
of a whimsical imagination rather than the records of close 
observation of men and manners. They nevertheless always 
arouse our sympathy, and they have that quality of pictur- 
esqueness and concreteness which enables us to realize them 
at least in the mind's eye. One of them. Rip Van Winkle, 
was, some years ago, perfectly realized in flesh and blood 
in the impersonation of Mr. Jefferson.^ 

A kind of semi-humorous narrative which Irving managed 
with great skill and which he invested with a charm and 

1. Mr. Jefferson, Joseph Jefferson (1829-1905), a famous American 
actor. Rip Van Winkle was dramatized soon after its appearance. A 
number of stage versions of the story were made. Jefferson appeared 
for the first time in the part on Dec. 24, 1860, in a version written by 
himself. Jefferson's Rip was at first unsuccessful; but in 1865 he tried 
the part again, this time in a revision of Jefferson's play made by Dion 
Boucicault, and the public accepted it with great enthusiasm. Jefferson 
continued to act the part until within a short time of his death. 



2,2 THE SKETCH BOOK 

interest all his own, is the ghostly legend. Ghost stories were 

^ . , fashionable in Irving's day. Tales of terror 

Irvmgs ° ^ 

Treatment of and of the supernatural thronged the land in 
the Legend ^.j^g ioxvd of short stories, novels, and ballads. 
Sir Walter Scott tried his hand a number of times on the 
theme. Other names that one connects with this movement 
in English literature are those of Horace Walpole, who pub- 
lished a romance of mystery called The Castle of Otranto 
(1764), Mrs. Radcliffe, who wrote The Mysteries of Udolpho 
(1794), and M. G. Lewis, author of The Monk (1795) and 
Romantic Tales (1808). Ghosts, speaking statues, mysteri- 
ous noises by night, trapdoors and ruined castles — such is 
the machinery of which the writers of these tales made lavish 
use, The stories are characterized usually by a crude 
heaping up of horrors which fails of its effect now because, 
the fashion having passed away, we have lost the predis- 
position to be thrilled in the way in which the author 
intended us to be thrilled. 

Irving took this crude tale of terror, this romantic specter- 
story, and made quite a different thing of it. It would be 
interesting to go through Irving's works and see how very 
often the theme of his story is some ghostly or supernatural 
incident. But one will search in vain in Irving for a ghost 
story in which a pure effect of terror or of the supernatural 
is aimed at. In this respect Irving differs strikingly from 
Poe and Hawthorne, both of whom occasionally chose super- 
natural subjects and who generally attempted, in their 
treatment of the supernatural, to produce an unmixed effect 
of the strange, vague, and unearthly in their readers. In 
Irving, however, the supernaturalism is always tinged with 
humor. He plays with his ghosts. The reader gets his 
thrill and at the same time smiles at himself for committing 



INTRODUCTION 33 

himself to the illusions of the story. How can one be very 
much frightened at a ghost which appears in the castle of 
a baron named Landshort, of the family of Katzenellen- 
bogen, or at the diminutive toping gnomes of Irving's 
Kaatskills, or at the Headless Horseman, who serves only 
to introduce the story of a shattered pumpkin? Time and 
again Irving takes up some bit of supernatural legend, and 
by a turn of phrase here and there, an odd touch in char- 
acterization at precisely the right moment, twists the whole 
into a whimsical medley of the gruesome and the ludi- 
crous. 

Irving's method, also, in the treatment of the short story, 
was often strikingly original. When he began to write, 
the short story still bore upon it the marks of its origin: it 
was either a hard, formal, didactic treatise, derived from the 
moral apologue or fable; or it was a popular legend or 
folk tale; or it was a sentimental love story, derived from 
the artificial love romance that followed the romance of 
chivalry. Irving took this traditional form and, as he him- 
self says, made of it merely "the frame on which to stretch 
his materials." His materials were not the old formal 
apologue, nor the worn-out romance of love, nor, again, mere 
ingenuity of plot and incident, but rather the materials 
which modern fiction has made specially its own — "the play 
of thought, and sentiment, and language; the weaving in of 
characters, lightly, yet expressively delineated; the familiar 
and faithful exhibition of scenes in common life; and the 
half-concealed vein of humor that is often playing through 
the whole." Already in his lifetime Irving found himself 
"elbowed by men who followed his footsteps." Hawthorne 
and Poe were his near followers, and American writers since 
that time have favored the short story. 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Again Irving possessed a peculiar gift in being able in his 
sketches and stories to seize upon the spirit of places and to 
fix that spirit in language. The Sketch Book 
Locality in is not a guide book, yet one about to visit 
Irving England could make no better preparation 

than by reading its pages. The edge of the interest in foreign 
countries, even of the untraveled, is nowadays somewhat 
dulled by the comparative ease of communication and by 
the abundance of books and photographs, the excellence of 
which almost makes travel unnecessary. But in Irving's 
day everything was fresh to him. "Having been born^ and 
brought up in a new country," he says, "yet educated from 
infancy in the literature of an old one, my mind was early 
filled with historical and poetical associations, connected 
with places and manners and customs of Europe, but which 
could rarely be applied to those of my own country. To a 
mind thus peculiarly prepared, the most ordinary objects 
and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of strange matter 
and interesting novelty. England is as classic ground to an 
American as Italy is to an Englishman; and old London 
teems with as much historical association as mighty Rome." 
And he adds later: "I have never yet grown familiar enough 
with the crumbling monuments of past ages to blunt the 
intense interest with which I at first beheld them." 

This freshness of interest has passed over into Irving's 
writing. It is his vivid «sense of locality, of the genius of 
places, that gives unfailing interest to such essays in The 
Sketch Book as Little Britain, Stratjord-on-Avon, Westmin- 
ster Abbey, and others. The same power^ enabled Irving to 

1. Having been born, etc., from the preface to Bracehridge Hall. 2. 
The same power. It is interesting to tiote that Bismarck, on the occa- 
sion of his first visit to Holland in 1853, mentions in a letter to his wife 
that he was reminded of Irving's Dolph Heyliger and Rip Van Winkle. 



INTRODUCTION 35 

transfer to his pages the atmosphere of faded splendor in 
The Alhambra; and the romantic life of Italy a hundred 
years ago lives again for us in the banditti stories of The 
Tales of a Traveler. In many ways Irving satisfied, and still 
continues to satisfy, the natural curiosity which the people 
of America have always had concerning the customs, 
manners, and famous places of Europe. The first ambas- 
sador whom the new world of letters sent to the old, as 
Thackeray called him, he was also the first messenger to 
bring back to this country an intelligent report on the place 
of his embassy. 

But Irving was able not only to bring before us the places 
of the Old World with their wealth of human association 
and story; he accomplished the much more difficult task 
of investing the life and nature of the New World with the 
same richness of tradition that charms us in the old. The 
legends of the Rhine mean no more to the German than 
Irving's legends of the Hudson mean to us. Just how far the 
stories^ of which Irving made use were traditional among 
the inhabitants of the Hudson valley, it is perhaps impossible 
to determine. But it is certain that now they have become 
for everyone who passes through that region the most appro- 
priate expression of its poetry and beauty. A similar 
achievement was the creation of that part of the Knicker- 
bocker legend which centers about the city of New York. 
This field Irving first entered in his Knickerbocker History; 
and again and again in later works he returns to the favorite 
subject of his youth. In this subject he was always success- 
ful. The legend has invested the island of Manhattan and 
its surrounding waters with the glow of traditional romance. 

1. the stories. See Editor's Appendix for the German story which 
is the main source of the story of Rip Van Winkle. 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Knickerbocker has become the city's "most all-pervading 
and descriptive name"; and the humorous conception of 
Dutch character and history in the legend has become "as 
inseparable from New York as the form of the island and 
the encircling shores of the bay." In this achievement alone 
there is surety of lasting fame ; for the city whose traditions 
Irving's pen first fashioned and enriched has itself become a 
chief monument to his memory. 

III. Bibliography 

Irving's works are published in several standard editions 
by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York City. 

The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by his nephew, 
Pierre M. Irving, was published in four volumes, New York, 
1862-64. A new edition, revised and condensed into three 
volumes, was published by the Putnams in 1895. This life 
is of special value because it is the only place in which 
Irving's letters and traveling journal are accessible. A 
shorter life is Charles Dudley Warner's Washington Irving, 
Boston, 1881, in the American Men of Letters series. Mr. 
Warner has a still briefer sketch prefixed to the Geoffrey 
Crayon edition of Irving's works, and a short study in a 
separate volume, Work of Washington Irving, published by 
Harpers. There are few critical works of importance. Be- 
sides the several studies by Warner given above and the 
standard histories of American literature, the following may 
be mentioned: George William Curtis, in Literary and Social 
Essays; Edwin W. Morse, in Historians and Essayists, The 
Warner Classics, pages 143-168; George E. Woodberry, in 
America in Literature, pages 40-76; and for a discussion of 
the national element in Irving, Lodge, Studies in History, 
pages 344-346. 



INTRODUCTION 37 

IV. Table of Chief Dates in Irving's Life 

1783 Irving born, April 3, in New York. 

1799 Began the study of law. 

1804-6 Traveled in Europe. 

1806 Admitted to the bar. 

1807-8 Salmagundi written. 

1809 Knickerbocker's History of New York published. 

1810 Became a partner in the business of his brothers. 
1815 Went to Liverpool. 

1818 Failure in business. 

1819 First number of The Sketch Book published. 
1822 Bracebridge Hall published. 

1824 Tales of a Traveler published. 
1826-29 Lived in Spain. 

1828 Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus pub- 

lished. 

1829 Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada published. 

1831 Voyages of the Companions of Columbus published. 

^n^^ ( The Alhambra published. 

1832 <; ^ , . . 

) Returned to America. 

1836 Astoria published. 

1837 Adventures of Captain Bonneville published. 
1842-46 Minister to Spain. 

1849 Life of Oliver Goldsmith and Life of Mahomet 

published 
1855 Wolfert's Roost published. 
1855-59 Life of George Washington published. 
1859 Death, November 28, at Sunnyside. 



IRVING'S PREFACE TO 
THE REVISED EDITION OF THE SKETCH BOOK 

The following papers, with two exceptions, v/ere written 
in England, and formed but part of an intended series, for 
which I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could 
mature a plan, however, circumstances compelled me to send 
them piecemeal to the United States, where they were pub- 
lished from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not 
my intention to publish them in England, being conscious 
that much of their contents would be interesting only to 
American readers, and in truth, being deterred by the sever- 
ity with which American productions had been treated by 
the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared 
in this occasional manner, they began to find their way across 
the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums 
in the London Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a 
London bookseller intended to publish them in a collective 
form. I determined, therefore, to bring them forward my- 
self, that they might at least have the benefit of my super- 
intendence and revision. I accordingly took the printed 
numbers which I had received from the United States, 'to 
Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had 
already received friendly attentions, and left them with him 
for examination, informing him that should he be inclined 
to bring them before the public, I had materials enough on 
hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed 

39 



40 THE SKETCH BOOK 

without any communication from Mr. Murray, I addressed 
a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a tacit 
rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had 
left with him might be returned to me. The following was 
his reply: 



My dear Sir: 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind in- 
tentions toward me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect 
for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with 
work-people at this time, and I have only an office to transact busi- 
ness in ; and yesterday I was wholly occupied or I should have done 
myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present 
work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of U 
ivhich would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between 
us, without which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will 
do all I can to promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to 
attend to any future plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir. 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from 
any further prosecution of the matter, had the question of 
republication in Great Britain rested entirely with me; but 
I apprehended the appearance of a spurious edition. I now 
thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, having 
been treated by him with much hospitality during a visit to 
Edinburgh; but first I determined to submit my work to 
Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott,^ being encouraged to do so by 
the cordial reception I had experienced from him at Abbots- 

1. Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott. Scott (1771-1832) was made a 
baronet in 1820. Irving's visit to Abbotsford, Scott's residence, is in- 
terestingly described by him in his Crayon Miscellany. 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 41 

ford a few years previously, and by the favorable opinion he 
had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I accord- 
ingly sent him the printed numbers of The Sketch Book in a 
parcel, by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting 
that since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his hos- 
pitality, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which made 
the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me; I 
begged him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I had 
forwarded to him, and, if he thought they would bear Euro- 
pean republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable 
would be inclined to be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's 
address in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his resi- 
dence in the country. By the very first post I received a 
reply, before he had seen my work. 

"I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter reached 
Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will con- 
verse with Constable, and do all in my power to forward your 
views — I assure you nothing will give me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck 
the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and 
efficient good will which belonged to his nature, he had al- 
ready devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about 
to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable 
talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary informa- 
tion. The appointment of the editor, for which ample funds 
were provided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, 
with the reasonable prospect of further advantages. This 
situation, being apparently at his disposal, he frankly of- 
fered to me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have 



42 THE SKETCH BOOK 

somewhat of a political bearing, and he expressed an appre- 
hension that the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit 
me. "Yet I risk the question," added he, "because I know 
no man so well qualified for this important task, and per- 
haps because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If 
my proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter 
secret, and there is no harm done. 'And for my love I pray 
you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could 
be made to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, ad- 
dressing Castle Street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I am 
just come here, and have glanced over The Sketch Book. 
It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimps 
you, if it be possible. Some difficulties there always are in 
managing such a matter, especially at the outset; but we 
will obviate them as much as we possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draft of my reply, 
which underwent some modifications in the copy sent: "I 
cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I 
had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable lib- 
erty; but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about 
you that warms every creeping thing into heart and confi- 
dence. Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, 
as it evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I 
have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself pecu- 
liarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely 
by my political opinions, but by the very constitution and 
habits of my mind. "My whole course of life," I observed, 
"has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically 



ice. 



1. crimp, a slang word meaning "to secure," "to press into serv- 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 43 

recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I 
have no command of my talents, such as they are, and 
have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would those 
of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring me 
more into rule; but at present I am as useless for reg- 
ular service as one of my own country Indians or a Don 
Cossack.^ 

"I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun ; 
writing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally 
shift my residence and write whatever is suggested by ob- 
jects before me, or whatever rises in my imagination; and 
hope to write better and more copiously by and by. 

"I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of 
answering your proposal than by showing what a very 
good-for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable 
feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, 
he will encourage me to further enterprise; and it will be 
something like trading with a gypsy for the fruits of his 
prowlings, who may at one time have nothing but a wooden 
bowl to offer, and at another time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my 
declining what might have proved a troublesome duty. He 
then recurred to the original subject of our correspondence; 
entered into a detail of the various terms upon which ar- 
rangements were made between authors and booksellers, 
that I might take my choice; expressing the most encourag- 
ing confidence of the success of my work, and of previous 
works which I had produced in America. "I did no more," 
added he, "than open the trenches with Constable; but I am 



1. Don Cossack. The Cossacks are a warlike Turkish people dwell- 
ing north of the Black Sea. The Don Cossacks are the particular 
tribe settled in the department on the river Don. 



44 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sure if you will take the trouble to write him, you will find 
him disposed to treat your overtures with every degree of 
attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first 
place to see me, I shall be in London in the course of a 
month, and whatever my experience can command is most 
heartily at your command. But I can add little to what I 
have said above, except my earnest recommendation to 
Constable to enter into the negotiation."^ 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I 
had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, 
but to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and 
let it sink or swim accordingvto its merits. I wrote to that 
effect to Scott, and soon received a reply: 

"I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth 
in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish 
on one's own account; for the booksellers set their face 
against the circulation of such works as do not pay an 
amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of 
altogether damming up the road in such cases between the 
author and the public, which they were once able to do as 

1. I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of 
Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of 
our correspondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time 
previously I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American 
editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; 
showing the "nigromancy" of the American press, by which a quart of 
wine is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott observes: "In my hurry, I 
have not thanked you in Sophia's name for the kind attention which 
furnished her with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can 
add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of 
papa's folly than she would ever otherwise have learned; for I had taken 
special care they should never see any of those things during their 
earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament 
with a feather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement with a sword 
like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 
18th dragoons." [Author's Note.] 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 45 

effectually as Diabolus^ in John Bunyan's Holy War closed 
up the windows of my Lord Understanding's mansion. I 
am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to 
the British public to be admired by them, and I would not 
say so unless I really was of that opinion. 

"If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called 
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine^ you will find some no- 
tice of your works in the last number; the author is a friend 
of mine, to whom I have introduced you in your literary 
capacity. His name is Lockhart,^ a young man of very con- 
siderable talent, and who will soon be intimately connected 
with my family. My faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be 
next examined and illustrated. Constable was extremely 
willing to enter into consideration of a treaty for your works, 
but I foresee will be still more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 

And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London 



about the middle of the month, and promise myself great 
pleasure in once again shaking you by the hand." 

The first volume of The Sketch Book was put to press in 
London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller 
unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts by 

1. Diabolus .... my Lord Understanding. The allusion is to 
John Bunyan's True Relation of the Holy War made by King Shaddai 
upon Diabolus, Chapter II, where Diabolus darkens the windows of 
Lord Understanding's castle by building a tall tower so as to shut off 
the light. 2. Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. This magazine, 
founded in 1817 by William Blackwood, has had a long and famous 
career. Its contents are Of a literary and political character. 3. Lockhart, 
John Gibson (1794-1854), who afterwards became Scott's biographer, 
married Scott's daughter Sophia in April, 1820. 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK 

which a work is trumpeted into notice. Still some attention 
had been called to it by the extracts which had previously 
appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word 
spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting 
into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed be- 
fore the first month was over, and the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him 
for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious 
than Hercules,^ he put his own shoulder to the wheel. 
Through his favorable representations, Murray was quickly 
induced to undertake the future publication of the work 
which he had previously declined. A further edition of the 
first volume was struck off and the second volume was put 
to press, and from that time Murray became my publisher, 
conducting himself in all his dealings with that fair, open, 
and liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well-mer- 
ited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter 
Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that 
I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of grati- 
tude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowl- 
edging my obligations to him. But who of his literary con- 
temporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did 
not experience the most prompt, generous, and effectual as- 
sistance! W. I. 



1. more propitious than Hercules. Hercules, the helper of gods and 
men, the destroyer of monsters and performer of beneficent labors, 
was invoked in times of danger as the savior (Soter), and as averter of 
evil (Alexikalos). 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 



I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out 
of her shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced 
to make a stoole to sit on, so the traveler that stragleth from his 
owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a 
shape that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and 
to live where he can, not where he would. Lyly's Euphues.^ 



I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I 
began my travels and made many tours of discovery into 
foreign parts and unknowTi regions of my native city, to the 
frequent alarm of my parents and the emolument of the 
town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of 
my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in ram- 
bles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar 
with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every 
spot where a murder or robbery had been committed, or a 
ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added 
greatly to my stock of knowledge by noting their habits 
and customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. 
I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of 
the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye over many 
a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how 
vast a globe I inhabited. 

1. Lyly's Euphues. John Lyly (15547-1606) published his most 
famous work, Euphues, in 1579-1580. From its contemporary popularity 
it has come to be regarded as the typical expression of the highly 
artificial, literary style known as Euphuism. Irving makes frequent 
references to the work. 

47 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents I neglected the regular exercises 
of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the 
pierheads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, 
bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes would I 
gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagina- 
tion to the ends of the earth! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this 
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served 
to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own 
country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I 
should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratifica- 
tion, for on no country have the charms of nature been 
more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of 
liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; 
her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous 
cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, 
waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad, deep rivers, 
rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, 
where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, 
kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sun- 
shine — no, never need an American look beyond his own 
country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, 
the refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint pe- 
culiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country 
was full of youthful promise; Europe was rich in the ac- 
cumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history 
of times gone by, and every moldering stone was a chronicle. 
I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achieve- 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 49 

ment — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — 
to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling 
tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities 
of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy gran- 
deurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America — not a city but has an ample share of them. I 
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost 
withered by the shade into which they cast me; for there is 
nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great 
one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious 
to see the great men of Europe; for I had read in the works 
of various philosophers that all animals degenerated in 
America, and man among the number. A great man of 
Europe,^ thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great 
man of America as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the 
Hudson, and in this idea I was confirmed by observing the 
comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many 
English travelers among us, who, I was assured, were very 
little people in their own country. I will visit this land of 
wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I 
am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun- 
tries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I 
cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a 
philosopher; but rather with the sauntering gaze with which 
humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of 
one print-shop to another; caught sometimes by the delin- 

1. A great man of Europe, etc., a good example of Irving's use of 
irony. Note other examples as you continue your reading. 



50 THE SKETCH BOOK 

cations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, 
and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the 
fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and 
bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am dis- 
posed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. 
When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I 
have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me 
at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the 
great objects studied by every regular traveler who would 
make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with 
an unlucky landscape painter,who had traveled on the Con- 
tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 
sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch 
book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and land- 
scapes, and obscure ruins; but he had neglected to paint St. 
Peter's, or the Coliseum; the cascade of Terni,^ or the bay 
of Naples; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his 
whole collection. 

1. Terni, a series of three falls, celebrated for their beauty, near 
Terni, Italy. 



THE VOYAGE^ 

Ships, ships, I will descry you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 

Halloo! my fancy, whither wilt thou go? — Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has 
to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary ab- 
sence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state 
of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres- 
sions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemis- 
pheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no grad- 
ual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features and 
population of one country blend almost imperceptibly with 
those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the 
land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the oppo- 
site shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and nov- 
elties of another world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents that carry on 
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separa- 
tion. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain"^ at each 

1. The Voyage. This short sketch, especially the opening para- 
graphs, should be studied as a particularly successful example of Irving's 
method in presenting the subtler moods of experience. The descriptions 
apply less of course to modern conditions of ocean travel than to those 
of Irving's day. 2. A lengthening chain. From Goldsmith's Traveler , 
1, 10. He used the figure again in his Citizen of the World, Letter III. 

51 



52 THE SKETCH BOOK 

remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken. We 
can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last still 
grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at 
once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the 
secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a 
doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, 
but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject to tem- 
pest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, 
and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud 
in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of 
the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation be- 
fore I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from 
my view, which contained all most dear to me in life; what 
vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might take 
place in me before I should visit it again! Who can tell, 
when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by 
the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; 
or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his 
childhood? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the ex- 
pression. To one given to daydreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medi- 
tation; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of 
the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly 
themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb 
to the maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours together 
on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the 
piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy 
them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation 
of my own; to watch the gentle, undulating billows, roll- 



THE VOYAGE 53 

ing their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy 
shores. 

There was a delicious sensation, of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down from my giddy height on 
the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals 
of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship, the gram- 
pus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or 
the ravenous shark, darting, like a specter, through the blue 
waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had 
heard or read of the watery world beneath me; of the finny 
herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless 
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; 
and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fisher- 
men and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the 
great mass of existence! What a glorious monument of hu- 
man invention; which has in a manner triumphed over 
wind and wave; has brought the ends of the world into 
communion; has established an interchange of blessings, 
pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries 
of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the 
charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together 
those scattered portions of the human race, between which 
nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a 
distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of 
the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be 
the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; 
for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some 
of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar to prevent 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK 

their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by 
which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck 
had evidently drifted about for many months; clusters of 
shellfish had fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted 
at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their 
struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst 
the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among 
the caverns of the deep. Silencq, oblivion, like the waves, 
have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their 
end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship, what 
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home. How 
often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the 
daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of 
the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anx- 
iety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not one me- 
mento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may 
ever be known is that she sailed from her port, "and was 
never heard of more!" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- 
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the eve- 
ning, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, be- 
gan to look wild and threatening and gave indications of 
one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break in 
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round 
the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom 
more ghastly, everyone had his tale of shipwreck and dis- 
aster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by 
the captain. 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine, stout ship 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs 
which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us 
to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night the 



THE VOYAGE 55 

weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any 
object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the 
masthead, and a constant watch forward to look out for 
fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on 
the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and 
we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly 
the watch gave the alarm of 'A sail ahead!' — it was scarcely 
uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner 
at anchor, with her broadside toward us. The crew were 
all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her 
just amidships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel 
bore her down below the waves; we passed over her and 
were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was 
sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half- 
naked wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started 
from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I 
heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast 
that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. 
I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we 
could put the ship about, she was under such headway. 
We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where 
the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several 
hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if 
we might hear the halloo of any survivors; but all was si- 
lent — we never saw or heard anything of them more." 

T confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea 
was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, 
sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep 
called unto deep.^ At times the black column of clouds 

1. deep called unto deep. See Psalms xlii, 7: "Deep calleth unto 
deep at the noise of thy waterspouts." 



56 THE SKETCH BOOK 

overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which 
quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding 
darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the 
wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the 
mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging 
among those roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she 
regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
would dip into the water; her bow was almost buried be- 
neath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared 
ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous move- 
ment of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin the awful scene still followed 
me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded 
like funeral wailings. The creaking of the masts, the strain- 
ing and groaning of bulkheads, as the ship labored in the 
weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing 
along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it 
seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, 
seeking for his prey; the mere starting of a nail, the yawn- 
ing of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is 
impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather 
and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her 
canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the 
curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she 
seems to lord it over the deep! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
for with me it is almost a continued reverie — but it is time 
to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
"land!" was given from the masthead. None but those who 



THE VOYAGE 57 

have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng 
of sensations which rush into an American's bosom when he 
first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associa- 
tions with the very name. It is the land of promise, teem- 
ing with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on 
which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, tower- 
ing into the clouds — all were objects of intense interest. As 
we sailed up the Mersey^ I reconnoitered the shores with a 
telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the mol- 
dering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire 
of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring 
hill — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 
people; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of 
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calcu- 
lating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd 
in deference to his temporary importance. There were re- 
peated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the 
shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each 
other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble 
dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward 
from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it 

1. Mersey, the river on which Liverpool is situated. 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK 

neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. 
She seemed disappointed and agitated; when I heard a faint 
voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had 
been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of 
everyone on board. When the weather was fine, his mess- 
mates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, 
but of late his illness had so increased that he had taken to 
his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see 
his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we 
came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds^ 
with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that i': 
was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize 
him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his 
features; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow; she 
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wring- 
ing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men 
of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend 
to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land 
of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the 
land. 



ROSCOE 

— ^In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
And make us shine forever — that is life. 

— Thomson. 1 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liv- 
erpool is the Atheneum. It is established on a liberal and 
judicious plan; it contains a good library and spacious read- 
ing room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go 
there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled 
with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my at- 
tention was attracted to a person just entering the room. 
He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once 
have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — 
perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of counte- 
nance; a head that would have pleased a painter; and 
though some slight furrows on his brow showed that wast- 
ing thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed 
with the fire of a poetic soul. There was something in his 
whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order 
from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was 
Roscoe.2 I drew back with an involuntary feeling of ven- 

1. Thomson, James (1700-1748), author of The Seasons. 2. Roscoe, 
William (1753-1831), published his principal work, The Life of Lorenzo 
de' Medici, in 1796. Irving gives a somewhat exaggerated impression of 
his importance. 

59 



60 THE SKETCH BOOK 

eration. This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was 
one of those men whose voices have gone forth to the ends 
of the earth; with whose minds I have communed even in 
the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our 
country, to know European writers only by their works, we 
cannot conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by 
trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of 
common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass be- 
fore our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the 
emanations of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of 
literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian^ of the Medici, 
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my 
poetical ideas; but it is from the very circumstances and sit- 
uation in which he has been placed that Mr. Roscoe derives 
his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice 
how some minds seem almost to create themselves, springing 
up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but 
irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems 
to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which 
it would rear legitimate dullness to maturity; and to glory 
in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She 
scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some 
may perish among the stony places of the world, and some 
be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adver- 
sity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the 
clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vege- 
tation. 

1. elegant historian. Note how frequently and, we should now saj', 
inappropriately, Irving uses the adjective "elegant." In Irving's day 
the word was a conventional one of general application in commendatory 
senses. What are our conventional commendatory adjectives today? 



ROSCOE 61 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the 
very market-place of trade; without fortune, family connec- 
tions, or patronages; self -prompted, self-sustained, and al- 
most self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved 
his way to eminence, and, having become one of the orna- 
ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his tal- 
ents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has 
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me 
particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent 
as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many 
distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, 
however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their 
own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to 
the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty 
and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away 
from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence; to in- 
dulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; and to revel in 
scenes of mental, but exclusive, enjoyment. 

Mr, Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- 
corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no 
garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy; but has gone forth 
into the highways and thoroughfares of life; he has planted 
bowers by the wayside, for the refreshment of the pilgrim 
and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the 
laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the 
day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There 
is a "daily beauty in his life,"^ on which mankind may 
meditate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost 
useless, because inimitable, example of excellence; but pre- 

1. daily beauty in his life. From Othello, v, i, 19. 



62 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable, virtues, 
which are within every man's reach, but which, unfortu- 
nately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a 
paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of 
the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature 
and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the 
coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for their 
culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth, 
nor the quickening rays of tilted patronage, but on hours 
and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, 
by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can 
give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own 
Lorenzo de' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his 
eyes as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven 
the history of his life with the history of his native town, 
and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of 
his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive 
traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He 
found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of 
traffic; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh 
the garden of literature. By his own example and constant 
exertions he has effected that union of commerce and the in- 
tellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of 
his latest writings;^ and has practically proved how beau- 
tifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit 
each other. The noble institutions for literary and scientific 
purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giv- 

1. latest writings, address on the opening of the Liverpool Institu- 
tion. 



ROSCOE 63 

ing such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been 
originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. 
Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opu- 
lence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in 
commercial importance with the metropolis, it will be per- 
ceived that in awakening an ambition of mental improve- 
ment among its inhabitants he has effected a great bene- 
fit to the cause of British literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — 
in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told 
of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far 
above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the world, 
and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of ad- 
versity; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the 
reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the 
resources of his own mind, to the superior society of his 
own thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes to 
neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy asso- 
ciates. He is independent of the world around him. He 
lives with antiquity and posterity; with antiquity, in the 
sweet communion of studious retirement ; and with posterity, 
in the generous aspirings after future renown. The soli- 
tude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is 
then visited by those elevated meditations which are the 
proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna sent 
from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was 
riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liver- 
pool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some orna- 
mented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to 



64 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. 
It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, 
and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away 
from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to 
break a soft fertile country into a variety of landscapes. 
The Mersey was seen winding, a broad, quiet sheet of water 
through an expanse of green meadowland; while the Welsh 
mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into distance, 
bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of 
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality 
and literary retirement. The house was now silent and 
deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked 
out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows 
were closed — the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored 
beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pic- 
tured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some 
classic fountain, that had once welled its pure waters in a 
sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard 
and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was 
dispersed about the country. The good people of the vi- 
cinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble 
vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene 
admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine sornething 
whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. 
Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending 
for the possession of weapons which they could not wield. 
We might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, de- 



ROSCOE 65 

bating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and. 
illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of in- 
tense, but baffled sagacity with which some successful pur- 
chaser attempted to dive into the black-letter^ bargain he 
had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the stu- 
dious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have 
touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the 
only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. 
The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, 
companions of pure thought and innocent hours become in 
the seasons of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to 
dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When 
friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes 
into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue 
the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us 
with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor 
deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to 
Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never have 
been sold. Good, worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given 
for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat 
with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it cer- 
tainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, 
of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by 
one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of 
public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man 
of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He be- 

1. black-letter, the Gothic or Old English style of type, used in the 
earliest English printed books. See page 290. 



66 THE SKETCH BOOK 

comes mingled and confounded with other men. His great 
qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar with the 
common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest 
character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard 
him merely as a man of business; others as a politician; all 
find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, 
and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of 
worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious 
simplicity of character, which gives the nameless grace to 
real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some 
coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always 
void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who | 
speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. 
The intelligent traveler who visits it inquires where Roscoe 
is to be seen. He is the literary landmark of the place, in- 
dicating its existence to the distant scholar. He is, like 
Pompey's column^ at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
dignity. | 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his 
books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and 
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction that the 
whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from 
the writer's heart. 



TO MY BOOKS 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile. 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart; 

1. Pompey's column, a Corinthian column of red granite at Alex- 
andria. It was erected in 302 a. d., in honor of Diocletian. 



ROSCOE 67 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore: 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE WIFE^ 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. „ . 
The violet bed's not sweeter. 

— MlDDLETON.^ 

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of 
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth aH the 
energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and ele- 
vation to their character that at times it approaches to sub- 
limity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft 
and tender female, who had been all weakness and depend- 
ence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the 
prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to 
be the comforter and support of her husband under misfor- 
tune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest 
blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when 
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it 
with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; 
so it is beautifully ordered by Providence that woman, who 
is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier 

1. The Wife. The extravagance and sentimentality of this story- 
arise less from the general situation, which is a natural and true one, 
than from the details with which the situation of the story is clothed. 
Study the sketch from this point of view. 2. Middleton, Thomas 
(15707-1627), English dramatist. The quotation is from Women, Be- 
ware Women, in, i. 

68 



THE WIFE 69 

hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- 
den calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his 
nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding 
up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him 
a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. 
''I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, 
"than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, 
there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there 
they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed 
that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to 
retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly 
because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities 
of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him 
for subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed 
and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect 
kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at 
home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man 
is apt to run to waste and self-neglect, to fancy himself 
lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like 
some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend Leslie had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is 
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he 
delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every ele- 
gant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and 
fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. ^'Her 
life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an har- 



70 THE SKETCH BOOK 

monious combination: he was of a romantic and somewhat 
serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often no- 
ticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her 
in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the 
delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and 
acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form 
contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond, con- 
fiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call 
forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, 
as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. 
Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early 
and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- 
barked his property in large speculations; and he had not' 
been married many months, when, by a succession of sud- 
den disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself i 
reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation ^ 
to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance and! 
a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and! 
what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of( 
keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could' 
not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, 
however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not 
well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled 
sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid 
attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly pow- 
ers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; 
but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more 
he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought 
that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, 
thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the 



THE WIFE 71 

song will die away from those lips — the luster of those eyes 
will be quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, which 
now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like 
mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard 
him through, I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" 
At the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For 
God's sake!" cried he, "if you have any pity on me don't 
mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me 
almost to madness!" 

"And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or 
later; you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence 
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im- 
parted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften 
the hardest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself 
of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but 
also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts to- 
gether — an unreserved community of thought and feeling; 
She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying 
upon your mind; and true love will not brook reserve; it 
feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of 
those it loves are concealed from it." 

"Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future prospects — how am I to strike her very 
soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beg- 
gar! That she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the 
pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and 
obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down from 
the sphere in which she might have continued to move in 
constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration 
of every heart! — How can she bear poverty? She has been 



72 THE SKETCH BOOK 

brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can 
she bear neglect? She has been the idol of society. Oh, it 
will break her heart — it will break her heart! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had 
subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- 
tively. 

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary 
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to 
the alteration of your circumstances. You must change 
your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across 
his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you 
have never placed your happiness in outward show — you 
have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse 
of you for being less splendidly lodged; and surely it does 
not require a palace to be happy with Mary " 

"I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in 
a hovel! — I could go down with her into poverty and the 
dust! — I could — I could — God bless her! — God bless her!" 
cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and 
grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me she can be 
the same with you. Aye, more: it will be a source of pride 
and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies 
and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to 
prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every 
true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dor- 
mant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles 
up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No 
man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows 



THE WIFE 73 

what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her 
through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the 
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had 
to deal with; and following up the impression I had made, I 
finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his 
sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on 
the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of pleas- 
ures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward 
path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and 
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
reveled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied 
by so many galling mortifications to which in other ranks 
it is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie the next 
morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 

"And how did she bear it?" 

"Like an angel I It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms around my neck, and asked if 
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor 
girl," added he, "she cannot realize the change we must 
undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract; 
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. 
She feels as yet no privation; she suffers no loss of accus- 
tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come prac- 
tically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its 
petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest 
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world 
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortify- 



74 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ing; but then it is a single misery, and soon over; whereas 
you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the 
day. It is not poverty so much as pretense that harasses a 
ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an 
empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon 
come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and 
you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I 
found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride him- 
self, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform 
to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had 
been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new 
establishment required few articles, and those of the sim- 
plest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence 
had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, 
was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it be- 
longed to the little story of their loves; for some of the 
sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had 
leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting 
tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance 
of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 
him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as 
he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. "Poor 
Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. 

"And what of her?" asked I; "has anything happened to 
her?" 



THE WIFE 75 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it noth- 
ing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a 
miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial 
concerns of her wretched habitation?" 

"Has she then repined at the change?" 

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her; she has been to me all love and tenderness and 
comfort!" 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, 
my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that 
woman." 

"Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this 
is her first day of real experience; she has been introduced 
into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in 
arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the first 
time, known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has, 
for the first time, looked round her on a home destitute of 
everything elegant — almost of every thing _ convenient ; and 
may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brood- 
ing over a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I 
could not gainsa}^, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air 
of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet 
it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one 
end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their 
branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of 



76 THE SKETCH BOOK 

flowers tastefully disposed about the door and on the grass- 
plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath 
that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we 
approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped 
my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice sing- 
ing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of 
which her husband v/as peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- 
ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the 
gravel walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the 
window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and 
Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty 
rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her 
fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole coun- 
tenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so 
lovely. 

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are 
come! I have been watching and watching for you; and 
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set 
out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and 
I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, 
for I know you are fond of them — and we have such excel- 
lent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here — 
Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up 
brightly in his face, "Oh, w^e shall be so happy!" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — 
he folded his arms around her — he kissed her again and 
again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his 
eyes; and he has often assured me, that though the world 
has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has, 
indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a 
moment of more exquisite felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is, Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke^ day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre 

— Cart WRIGHT. 2 

[The following tale was found among the papers of the late 
Diedrich Knickerbocker,^ an old gentleman of New York, who was 
very curious in the Dqtch history of the province, and the manners 
of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical re- 
searches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; 
for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; where- 
as he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in 
that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, there- 
fore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up 
in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked 
upon it as a Httle clasped volume of black-letter,^ and studied it 
with the zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province 
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some 
years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary 
character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better 
than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which 
indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since 
been completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical 
collections as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his 

1. thylke, a demonstrative adjective, "that." 2. Cartwright, 
William (1611-1643) was the author of plays and poems. 3. Diedrich 
Knickerbocker. This character is entirely the creation of Irving's 
imagination. To him Irving ascribed the composition of his Knicker- 
bocker's History of New York, and students are advised to read at least 
the opening chapters of that book in preparation for this story. 4. 
black-letter. See note 1, page 65. 

77 



78 THE SKETCH BOOK 

work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm 
to his memory to say that his time might have been much better 
employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his 
hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the 
dust a httle in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of 
some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, 
yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than in 
anger,"! and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to 
injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated 
by critics, it is still held dear by many folks whose good opinion 
is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New- Year cakes; 
and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost equal 
to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's 
farthing.] 2 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem- 
ber the KaatskilP Mountains. They are a dismembered 
branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away 
to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and 
lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of 
season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the 
day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes 
of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 
purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening 
sky; but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloud- 
less, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their 
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow 
and light up like a crown of glory. 

1. more in sorrow than in-anger, a part of Horatio's description of 
the ghost of Hamlet's father, Hamlet, i, ii, 232. 2. A Queen Anne's 
farthing was remarkable because few farthings were coined in Queen 
Anne's reign. 3. Kaatskill. Irving uses the older Dutch form of the 
name, usually spelled "Catskill" now. The second element, "kill," 
means "stream" or "brook" and is found in many place-names in 
central New York, e. g., Schuylkill, Sparkill, etc. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 79 

At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 
whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the 
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of 
the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, 
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in 
the early times of the province, just about the beginning of 
the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant^ (may he rest 
in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the Orig- 
inal settlers standing within a few years, built of small yel- 
low bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows 
ard gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good- 
natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a 
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in 
the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied 
him to the siege of Fort Christina." He inherited, however, 
but Jittle of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 
observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, 
moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, henpecked hus- 
band. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing 
that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal 
popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious 
and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of 

1. Peter Stuyvesant. Stuyvesant was governor or director of New 
Amsterdam from 1645 until his death, in 1072. 2. Fort Christina was 
a Swedish fort and settlement on the Delaware a few miles below the 
present site of Wilmington. It was taken by the Dutch in 1654. Its 
garrison consisted of about thirty men, and not a shot was fired bj' 
either side when it was captured. See Knickerbocker History, Book vi, 
chapter viii. 



80 THE SKETCH BOOK 

shrev/s at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pli- 
ant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribula- 
tion; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the 
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffer- 
ing. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, 
be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so. Rip Van 
Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the 
good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable 
sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, 
whenever they talked those matters over in their evening 
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The 
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever 
he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their play- 
things, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 
them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. When- 
ever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded 
by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his 
back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; 
and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbor- 
hood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 
frorrT'the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would 
sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 
lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he 
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would 
carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, 
trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down 
dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would 
never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, 
and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking 



RIP VAN WINKLE 81 

Indian Corn, or building stone fences; the women of the 
village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to 
do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
not do for them. In a word. Rip was ready to attend to 
an3^bod3^'s business but his own; but as to doing family 
duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole 
country; everything about it went wrong, and would go 
wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling 
to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among the 
cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 
anywhere else; the rain always m.ade a point of setting in 
just as he had some outdoor work to do; so that though his 
patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his manage- 
ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a 
mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they be- 
longed to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his 
own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old 
clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like 
a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's 
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with 
one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however,- was one of those happy mor- 
tals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world 
easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with 
least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny 
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have 
whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept 
continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his care- 



82 THE SKETCH BOOK 

lessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morn- 
ing, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and 
everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of 
household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to 
all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown 
into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, 
cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always 
provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain 
to draw off his forces and take to the outside of the house — 
the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked hus- 
band. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was 
as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle 
regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked 
upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's 
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit be- 
fitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal 
as ever scouted the woods — but what courage can withstand 
the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's 
tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, 
his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, 
he sneaked about with a gallows air,^ casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish 
of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelp- 
ing precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows 
with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that 
grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used 
to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting 

1. gallows air. Compare "hang-dog air." In Jefferson's play, 
Wolf's name was changed to Schneider. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 83 

a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and 
other idle personages of the village ; which held its sessions on 
a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund por- 
trait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to 
sit in the shade through a long, hazy summer's day, talking 
listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories 
about nothing. But it would have been worth any states- 
man's money to have heard the profound discussions that 
sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper 
fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How sol- 
emnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by 
Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned 
little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic 
word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would delib- 
erate upon public events some months after they had taken 
place. 

The opinions of thisJmitQ^ were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord oL 
the, inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning 
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep 
in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell 
the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sundial. 
It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe 
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man 
has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew 
how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read 
or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his 
pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and 
angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke 
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; 

1. junt gty group. The word is of Spanish origin and is used 
generally of a political faction or organization. 



84 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth and letting 
the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break 
in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the mem- 
bers all to naught; nor was that august personage Nicholas 
Vedder himself sacred from the daring tongue of this ter- 
rible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging 
her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his 
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and 
the clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll 
away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat him- 
self at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wal- 
let with Wolf, with whom he synipathized as a fellow-suf- 
ferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy 
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my 
lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand 
by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his 
master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he 
reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day Rip 
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of 
the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of 
squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re- 
echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, 
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, 
covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a 
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich 
woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 85 

far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with 
the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging 
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 
last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild', lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- 
ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the 
reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay 
musing on this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the 
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the 
valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could 
reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a dis- 
tance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He 
looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its 
solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when 
he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: 
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"— at the same time 
Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked 
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. 
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he 
looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a 
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under 
the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfre- 
quented place, but supposing it to be someone of the neigh- 
borhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to 
yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, 



86 THE SKETCH BOOK 

square-built old fellow, with thick, bushy hair, and a griz- 
zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion: a 
cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pair of 
breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with 
rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. 
He bore on^ his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of 
liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him 
with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this 
new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity; 
and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a 
narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. 
As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling 
peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a 
deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward 
which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an in- 
stant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those 
transient thunder-showers which often take place in moun- 
tain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded 
by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which im- 
pending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored 
on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what 
could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild 
mountain, yet there was something strange and incompre- 
hensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked 
familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder pre- 
sented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a com- 
pany of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They 
were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion; some wore 



RIP VAN WINKLE 87 

short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, 
and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style 
with that of the guide's. Their jvisages, too, were peculiar: 
one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes; 
the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a 
little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes 
and colors. There was one who seemed to be the com- 
mander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- 
beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt 
and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, 
and high-heeled shoes, with roses^ in them. The whole 
group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting 
in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, 
and which had been brought over from^OlTand at the time 
of the settlement.2 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he 
had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of 
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they 
were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals 
of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such 
fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster 
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his 
knees smote together. His companion now emptied the 

1. roses. The diminutive "rosettes" is now the more common form 
of this word. 2. the settlement took place in the first quarter of the 
seventeenth century. The date of the first settlement was 1613 or 
1614. 



88 THE SKETCH BOOK 

contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to 
him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and 
trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and 
then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the 
beverage, w^hich he found had much of the flavor of excellent 
Hollands.^ He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon 
tempted to repeat the draft. One taste provoked another; 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at 
length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his 
head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he 
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes 
— it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping 
and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheel- 
ing aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," 
thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled 
the occurrences before he fell asleep. ( The strange man with 
a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat 
among the rocks — the woe-begone party at ninepins — the 
flagonV"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought 
Rip-^'what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle!" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and 
the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roisterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 
and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his 
gum 

1. Hollands, that is, Holland gin. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 89 

Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed 
away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him 
and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated 
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his 
dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff 
in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These 
mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and 
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of rheumatism, I 
shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With 
some difficulty he got down into the glen ; yie found the 
gulley up w^hich he and his companion had ascended the 
preceding eveningf^but to his astonishment a mountain 
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to 
rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, how- 
ever, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toil- 
some way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch- 
hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild 
grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to 
tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the raAone had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, im- 
penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a 
sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, 
then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called 
and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the 
cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a 
dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, secure in 
their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor 



90 THE SKETCH BOOK 

man's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning 
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he 
dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve 
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the 
rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, 
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, 
for he had thought himself acquainted with everyone in the 
country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion 
from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at 
him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 
their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The 
constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntar- 
ily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found 
his beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and 
pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of 
which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him 
as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger 
and more populous. There were rows of houses which he 
had never seen before, and those which had been his fa- 
miliar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over 
the doors — strange faces at the windows — everything was 
strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt 
whether both he and the world around him were not be- 
witched. Surely this was his native village, which he had 
left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Moun- 
tains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was 
every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip 



RIP VAN WINKLE 91 

was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, 
"has a,ddled my poor head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting 
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. 
He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- 
starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about 
it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed 
his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut in- 
deed — "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten 
me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, for- 
lorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness over- 
came all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife 
and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with 
his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 
village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some 
of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, 
and over the door was painted, "the Union Hotel, by Jona- 
than Doolittle."^ Instead of the great tree that used to 
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was 
reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that 
looked like a red nightcap," and from it was fluttering a 
flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes 

1, Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. The old Dutch inn, as 
Irving indicates by its name, has now become a Yankee "hotel." 
2. like a red nightcap, the liberty cap part of the costume of sym- 
bolical representations of the goddess of Liberty, as for example on 
our American silver coins. 



92 THE SKETCH BOOK 

— all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized 
on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under 
which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even 
this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the 
hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a 
cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but 
none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people 
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious 
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, 
with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering 
clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking 
fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing^ 
vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members of 
Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — 
and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to 
the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of 
women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention 
of the tavern politicians. The}^ crowded round him, eyeing 
him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator 
bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired 
on which side he voted. Rip stared in vacant stupidity. 
Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, 
and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear whether he was 



RIP VAN WINKLE 93 

Federal or Democrat. ^ Rip was equally at a loss to compre- 
hend the question; when a knowing, self-important old 
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through 
the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows 
as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with 
one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes 
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, 
demanded in an austere tone what brought him to the elec- 
tion with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village. "Alas! 
gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, 
quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the 
King, God bless him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A Tory! 
a Tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It 
was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the 
cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold 
austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit 
"what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but 
merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who 
used to keep about the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? — Name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There vv^as a silence for a little while, when an old man re- 
plied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! Why, he is 
dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden 

1. Federal or Democrat. At the time of the formation and adoption 
of the Constitution two political parties were organized. The leader of 
the Federal party, favoring the Constitution, was Alexander Hamilton; 
of the Democratic party, Thomas Jefferson. 



94 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, 
but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Butcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; 
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point^ — 
others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's 
Nose." I don't know — he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, 
and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in 
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the 
world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such 
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not 
understand: war — Congress — Stony Point. He had no cour- 
age to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, ^ 
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" J 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle! " exclaimed two or three, "oh, to be 
sure! That's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself 
as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy, and cer- 
tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely con- 
founded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was 
himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, 
the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what 
was his name? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; "I'm not 

1. stony Point. A battle took place at Stony Point on the Hudson 
during the Revolutionary War. 2. Antony's Nose, a fanciful name 
for a picturesque rock which juts out into the Hudson, not far from 
West Point. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 95 

myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's 
somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, 
but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my 
gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't 
tell what's my name, or who I am!" 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- 
heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, 
and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very 
suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat 
retired with some^ecipitation. At this critical moment a 
fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a 
peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in 
her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. 
"Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man 
won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- 
lections to his mind. "What is your name, my good 
woman?" asked he. 

'Tudith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name?" 

"Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, 
and never has been heard of since — his dog came home with- 
out him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away 
by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little 
girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with 
a faltering voice: "Where's your mother?" 

Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke 
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler. 



96 THE SKETCH BOOK 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. ''I am your father!" 
cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Win- 
kle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering 
under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! 
it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, 
old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long 
years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put 
their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in 
the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned 
to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking 
of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the 
road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, 
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter 
was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well 
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the 
neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated 
his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the 
company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor 
the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been 
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the 



RIP VAN WINKLE 97 

great Hendrick Hudson/ the first discoverer of the river and 
country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with 
his crew of the Half Moon; being permitted in this way to 
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye 
upon the river and the great city called by his name. That 
his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he 
himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of 
their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a 
snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a 
husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that 
used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who 
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he 
was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an heredi- 
tary disposition to attend to anything else but his busi- 
ness. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for 
the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends 
among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took 
his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was 
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a 

1. Hendrick Hudson. Henry Hudson (d. 1611) was an English navi- 
gator in the services of the Dutch East India Company. In September, 
1609, he sailed up the Hudson River in his ship, the Half Moon, as far 
as Albany. 



98 THE SKETCH BOOK 

chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some 
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or 
could be made to comprehend the strange events that had 
taken place during his .torpor.^ How that there had been a 
revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke 
of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his 
Majesty George the Third, Jie was now a free citizen of the 
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes 
of states and empires made but little impression on him; 
but there was one species of despotism under which he had 
long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily 
that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, 
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When- 
ever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might 
pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or 
joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at 
Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on 
some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, 
owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled 
down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, 
woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. 
Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and 
insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this 
was one point on which he always remained flighty. The 
old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it 
full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 
storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill but they 
say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine- 



RIP VAN WINKLE 99 

pins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in 
the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, 
that they might have a quieting draft out of Rip Van 
Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE 

The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the 
Emperor Frederick der Rothbart^ and the Kypphaiiser Mountain; 
the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, 
shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of 
our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous 
events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger 
stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which 
were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even 
talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when I last saw him, 
was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and con- 
sistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person 
could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a 
certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed 
with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- 
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. D. K." 

Postscript 

The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of 
Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region 
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits 
who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the 
landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were 
ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt 

1. Frederick der Rothbart. Frederick Barbarossa was crowned 
Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire in 1155. According to the legend 
he was to sleep after death in a cavern of a mountain until he should be 
awakened by the flight of the raven over his sleeping place; he would 
then awaken from his long sleep and become again Holy Roman Em- 
peror. The German poet Schiller has written a ballad on the theme. 



100 THE SKETCH BOOK 

on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of 
day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She 
hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into 
stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin 
light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send 
them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like 
flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by 
the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the 
grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an 
hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black 
as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in 
the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the 
valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the 
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking 
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes 
he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead 
the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! leav- 
ing him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great 
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the 
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which 
abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden 
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the 
soUtary bittern, with water snakes basking in the sun on the 
leaves of the pond lilies which lie on the surface. This place was 
held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter 
would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, 
however, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to the garden 
rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches 
of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the 
hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down 
precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its 
way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being 
the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 



Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing 
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible 
locks; methinks I see her as an eagle, mewingi her mighty youth, 
and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam. 

— Milton on the Liberty of the Press.^ 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary 
animosity daily growing up between England and America. 
Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the 
United States, and the London press has teemed with vol- 
umes of travels through the Republic;^ but they seem in- 
tended to diffuse error rather than knowledge; and so suc- 
cessful have they been that, notwithstanding the constant 
intercourse between the nations, there is no people con- 
cerning whom the great mass of the British public have less 
pure information, or entertain more numerous prejudices. 

English travelers are the best and the worst in the world. 
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can 
equal them for profound and philosophical views of society, 
or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects; 
but when either the interest or reputation of their own coun- 
try comes in collision with that of another, they go to the 

1. mewing, "changing," "molting." The word is used specifically 
of the molting or shedding of its feathers by the bird. 2. Liberty of 
the Press, from The Areopagitica. 3. travels through the Republic. 
How numerous these volumes were, may be seen from the long list given 
in Channing and Hart's Guide to the Study of American History, pages 
78-86. They continued to appear for some years after Irving wrote, the 
two which caused the most comment and annoyance in America being 
1 Mrs. TroUope's Domestic Manners of the Americajis, 1832, and Dickens's 
i American Notes, 1842. The animosity which is the subject of this essay 
has now fortunately given place to much more kindly feelings. 

101 

I 



102 THE SKETCH BOOK 

opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity and candor, 
in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit 
of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place implicit 
confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the regions 
beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown islands in the 
Yellow Sea; of the interior of India; or of any other tract 
which other travelers might be apt to picture out with the 
illusions of their fancies; but I would cautiously receive his 
account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations 
with which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. 
However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not 
trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travelers. While men 
of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent 
from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, 
and to study the manners and customs of barbarous nations, 
with which she can have no permanent intercourse of profit 
or pleasure, it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, 
the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Man- 
chester and Birmingham^ agent, to be her oracles respecting 
America. From such sources she is content to receive her 
information respecting a country in a singular state of moral 
and physical development — a country in which one of the 
greatest political experiments in the history of the world is 
now performing ; and which presents the most profound and 
momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

1. Manchester and Birmingham, the two chief manufacturing 
towns of England. The "agent" is the "drummer" or "traveling sales- 
man." 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 103 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America 
is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contem- 
plation are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The 
national character is yet in a state of fermentation; it may 
have its frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are 
sound and wholesome; it has already given proofs of powerful 
and generous qualities; and the whole promises to settle down 
into something substantially excellent. But the causes which 
are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily 
indications of admirable properties, are all lost upon these 
purblind observers; who are only affected by the little asperi- 
ties incident to its present situation. They are capable of 
judging only of the surface of things; of those matters which 
come in contact with their private interests and personal 
gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences and 
petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and 
over-populous state of society; where the ranks of useful 
labor are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile 
subsistence by studying the very caprices of appetite and 
self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are all- 
important in the estimation of narrow minds; which either 
do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are more 
than counterbalanced among us by great and generally 
diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some 
unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have 
pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold 
and silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sa- 
gacity; and where they were to become strangely and 
suddenly rich, in some unforeseen but easy manner. The 
same weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations 
produces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become 



104 THE SKETCH BOOK 

embittered against the country on finding that there, as 
everywhere else, a man must sow before he can reap, must 
win wealth by industry and talent; and must contend with 
the common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an 
intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or 
from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the 
stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have 
been treated with unwonted respect in America; and having 
been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below 
the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile 
feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the common 
boon of civility; they attribute to the lowliness of others 
their own elevation ; and underrate a society where there are 
no artificial distinctions, and where by any chance such 
individuals as themselves can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming 
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desir- 
able, would be received with caution by the censors of the 
press; that the motives of these men, their veracity, their 
opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capacities 
for judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized before 
their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against 
a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, 
and it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. 
Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which English critics 
will examine the credibility of the traveler who publishes 
an account of some distant and comparatively unimportant 
country. How warily will they compare the measurements 
of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin; and how sternly 
will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 105 

merely curious knowledge; while they will receive, with 
eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations 
of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country with 
which their own is placed in the most important and delicate 
relations. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal 
volumes textbooks, on which to enlarge with a zeal and an 
ability worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dw^ell on this irksome and hackneyed 
topic; nor should I have adverted to it but for the undue 
interest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and 
certain injurious effects which I apprehend it might produce 
upon the national feeling. We attach too much consequence 
to these attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. 
The tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be woven 
round us are like cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant 
giant. Our country continually outgrows them. One false- 
hood after another falls off of itself. We have but to live on, 
and every day w^e live a whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for a 
moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing impor- 
tance and matchless prosperity. They could not conceal 
that these are owing, not merely to physical and local, but 
also to moral causes — to the political liberty, the general 
diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral and 
religious principles, which give force and sustained energy to 
the character of a people; and which, in fact, have been 
the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of their own 
national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the asperations of 
England? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by 



106 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us? It is 
not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and 
reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter 
of a nation's fame; with its thousand eyes it witnesses a 
nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is national 
glory or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or not; it is, 
perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling 
anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, 
to grow with its growth and strengthen with its strength. If 
in America, as some of her writers are laboring to convince 
her, she is hereafter to find an invidious rival and a gigantic 
foe, she may thank those very writers for having provoked 
rivalship and irritated hostility. Everyone knows the all- 
pervading influence of literature at the present day, and bow 
much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its 
control. The mere contests of the sword are temporary; 
their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the 
generous to forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the 
pen pierce to the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest 
spirits; they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it 
morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but 
seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between 
two nations; there exists, most commonly, a previous 
jealousy and ill-will; a predisposition to take offense. Trace 
these to their cause, and how often will thej^ be found to 
originate in the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers; 
who, secure in their closets, and for ignominious bread, con- 
coct and circulate the venom that is to inflame the generous 
and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point; for it 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 107 

applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no 
nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over 
the people of America; for the universal education of the 
poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There is 
nothing published in England on the subject of our country 
that does not circulate through every part of it. There is 
not a calumny dropped from English pen, nor an unworthy 
sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to 
blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. 
Possessing, then, as England does, the fountainhead whence 
the literature of the language flows, how completely is it in 
her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the 
medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream 
where the two nations might meet together, and drink in 
peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning 
it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may 
repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be 
of but little moment to her; but the future destinies of that 
country do not admit of a doubt; over those of England 
there lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a 
day of gloom arrive — should these reverses overtake her, 
from which the proudest empires have not been exempt — she 
may look back with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing 
from her side a nation she might have grappled to her bosom, 
and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship 
beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England that the people 
of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is 
one of the errors which have been diligently propagated by 
designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political 
hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the 
English press; but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of 



108 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the people are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one 
time they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an 
absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman 
was a passport to the confidence and hospitality of every 
family, and too often gave a transient currency to the worth- 
less and the ungrateful. Throughout the country there was 
something of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. 
We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and 
veneration, as the land of our forefathers — the august repos- 
itory of the monuments and antiquities of our race — the 
birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our 
paternal history. After our own country, there was none in 
whose glory we more delighted — none whose good opinion 
we were more anxious to possess — none toward which our 
hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm consanguinity. 
Even during the late war, whenever there was the least 
opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was the 
delight of the generous spirits of our country to show that, 
in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the sparks of 
future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of kindred 
sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever? 
Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage; which might have 
interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented 
the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give 
up the kindred tie, and there are feelings dearer than inter- 
est — closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us 
cast back a look of regret, as we wander farther and farther 
from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the 
parent that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 109 

England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on 
our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a 
prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nor the 
keenest castigation of her slanderers — but I allude to a dis- 
position to retaliate in kind; to retort sarcasm and inspire 
prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely among our 
writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper, 
for it would double the evil instead of redressing the wrong. 
Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and 
sarcasm; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. It 
is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, 
rather than warmed into indignation. If England is willing 
to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous 
animosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her press, 
and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of 
her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, 
and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emigra- 
tion ; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have 
we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in 
all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the 
gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, 
but the gratification of resentment — a mere spirit of retali- 
ation; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never re- 
published in England; they fall short, therefore, of their 
aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among 
our writers; they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, 
and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What is 
still worse, they circulate through our own country, and, as 
far as they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. 
This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Gov- 
erned, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care 
should be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. 



110 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge ;i whoever, 
therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, willfully saps 
the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be 
candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions 
of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be 
enabled to come to all questions of national concern with 
calm and unbiased judgments. From the peculiar nature of 
our relations with England, we must have more frequent 
questions of a difficult and delicate character with her than 
with any other nation; questions that affect the most acute 
and excitable feelings; and as, in the adjusting of these, our 
national measures must ultimately be determined by popular 
sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it 
from all latent passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every 
portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. 
It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, 
at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising not 
merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and 
noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices? They are 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude 
and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other 
and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and 
hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into national 
existence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when the 

1. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge. The first half of 
this apothegm is from Bacon's Meditationes Sacrae, De Hceersibus, 
where it appears in the form "nam et ipsa scientia potestas est." The 
second half of the sentence expresses a thought common in Bacon, 
although it is not a part of the saying just quoted. Cf. the following 
from Bacon's remarks In Praise of Knowledge: "Knowledge is a double 
of that v/hich is. The truth of being and the truth of knowing is all one." 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 111 

different parts of the habitable world, and the various 
branches of the human family, have been indefatigably 
studied and made known to each other; and we forego the 
advantages of our birth if we do not shake off the national 
prejudices, as we would the local superstitions of the old 
world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry 
feelings so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what 
is really excellent and amiable in the English character. We 
are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must 
take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the 
existing nations of Europe. There is no country more 
worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her consti- 
tution is most analagous to ours. The manners of her people 
— their intellectual activity — their freedom of opinion — their 
habits of thinking on those subjects which concern the 
dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, 
are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are 
all intrinsically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the 
people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are 
laid; and however the superstructure may be time-worn, or 
overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the 
basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the structure 
of an edifice that so long has towered unshaken amidst the 
tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all 
feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiber- 
ality of British authors, to speak of the English nation with- 
out prejudice, and with determined candor. While they 
rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our 
countrymen admire and imitate everything English, merely 
because it is English, let them frankly point out what is 



112 THE SKETCH BOOK 

really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England 
before us as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are 
recorded sound deductions from ages of experience; and 
while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have 
crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of 
practical wisdom wherewith to strengthen and to embellish 
our national character. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

— COWPER.I 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
English character must not confine his observations to the 
metropolis. He must go forth into the country; he must 
sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castles, villas, 
farmhouses, cottages; he must w^ander through parks and 
gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about 
country churches; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural 
festivals; and cope with the people in all their conditions, 
and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and 
fashion of the nation; they are the only fixed abodes of 
elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited 
almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the 
contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general 
rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small 
portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and, 
having indulged in this kind of carnival, return again to the 
apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various 
orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole surface 
of the kingdom, and the most retired- neighborhoods afford 
specimens of the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of 

1. Cowper, William (1731-1800), an English poet. 

113 



114 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments 
of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even 
the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick 
walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural 
habits and evince a tact for rural occupation. The mer- 
chant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, 
where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the culti- 
vation of his flower-garden and the maturing of his fruits as 
he does in the conduct of his business, and the success of a 
commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individ- 
uals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din 
and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind 
them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and 
dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window re- 
sembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of 
vegetation has its grassplot and flower bed; and every 
square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and 
gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to 
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is 
either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand 
engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling in this 
huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a look of 
hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on 
the point of going somewhere else; at the moment he is 
talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another; 
and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he 
shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in 
the morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is cal- 
culated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their 
casual and transient meetings they can but deal briefly in 
commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND US 

character — its rich and genial quaHties have no time to be 
warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold 
formalities and negative civilities of town; throws off his 
habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. 
He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and 
elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His 
country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious 
retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, 
paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of 
all kinds are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon 
his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality 
provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves everyone to 
partake according to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
what is called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have 
studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of 
her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those 
charms which in other countries she lavishes in wild soli- 
tudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. 
They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and 
spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of 
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of 
vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, 
heaping up rich piles of foliage; the solemn pomp of groves 
and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds 
across them ; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the 
pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing; the brook, 
taught to wind in natural meanderings or expand into a 
glassy lake; the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering 



116 THE SKETCH BOOK 

trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the 
trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters; while some 
rustic temple or silvan statue, grown green and dank with 
age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery; but 
what most delights me is the creative talent with which the 
English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. 
The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty por- 
tion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes 
a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye he seizes 
at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the 
future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness un- 
der his hand; and yet the operations of art which produce 
the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and 
training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the 
nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful 
foliage; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the 
partial opening to a peep of blue distance or silver gleam of 
water — all these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervad- 
ing yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which 
a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the 
country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural 
economy that descends to the lowest class. The very 
laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, 
attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge; the grass- 
plot before the door; the little flower bed bordered with snug 
box; the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging 
its blossoms about the lattice; the pot of flowers in the win- 
dow; the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat 
winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 117 

green summer to cheer the fireside — all these bespeak the 
influence of taste, flowing down from high sources,, and per- 
vading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, 
as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cot- 
tage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the 
national character. I do not know a finer race of men than 
the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effem- 
inacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, 
they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness 
of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined 
to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pur- 
suing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. 
These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind 
and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, 
which even the follies and dissipations of" the town cannot 
easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the coun- 
try, too, the difi'erent orders of society seem to approach 
more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favor- 
ably upon each other. The distinctions between them do 
not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. 
The manner in which property has been distributed into 
small estates and farms has established a regular grada- 
tion from the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small 
landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the 
laboring peasantry; and while it has thus banded the ex- 
tremes of society together, has infused into each intermedi- 
ate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be con- 
fessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was 
formerly, the larger estates having, in late years of distress. 



118 THE SKETCH BOOK 

absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, 
almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, 
however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general sys- 
tem I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. 
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and 
beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, oper- 
ated upon by the purest and most elevating of eternal influ- 
ences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot 
be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing 
revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural 
life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower or- 
ders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and 
is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into 
the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed, 
the very amusements of the country bring men more and 
more together; and the sound of hound and horn blend 
all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason 
why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the 
inferior orders in England than they are in any other coun- 
try; and why the latter have endured so many excessive 
pressures and extremities, without repining more generally 
at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also 
be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British 
literature; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life; 
those incomparable descriptions of nature that abound in 
the British poets, that have continued down from "The 
Flower and the Leaf"^ of Chaucer, and have brought into 
our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy land- 

1. "The Flower and the Leaf" is now known not to be by Chaucer 
but by an imitator of him. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 119 

scape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if 
they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become ac- 
quainted with her general charms; but the British poets 
have lived and reveled with her — they have wooed her in 
her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest 
caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf 
could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not 
patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the 
humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the 
morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and 
delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful 
morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural oc- 
cupations has been wonderful on the face of the country. 
A great part of the island is rather level, and would be 
monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture; but it 
is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, 
and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not 
abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little 
home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every 
antique farmhouse and moss-grown cottage is a picture; 
and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is 
shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a con- 
tinual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveli- 
ness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral 
feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the 
mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well-established 
principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything 
seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful ex- 
istence. The old church of remote architecture, with its 
low, massive portal; its gothic tower; its windows rich with 



120 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation; its 
stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden 
time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil; its tomb- 
stones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, 
whose progeny still plow the same fields, and kneel at the 
same altar; the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly 
antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various 
ages and occupants; the stile and footpath leading from the 
churchyard, across pleasant fields and along shady hedge- 
rows, according to an immemorial right of way; the neigh- 
boring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green 
sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the pres- 
ent race have sported; the antique family mansion, stand- 
ing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with 
a protecting air on the surrounding scene — all these common 
features of English landscape evince a calm and settled se- 
curity, and hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues 
and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for 
the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell 
is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to be- 
hold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and 
modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green 
lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to see them 
in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and 
appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellish- 
ments which their own hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affec- 
tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of 
the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot 
close these desultory remarks better than by quoting the 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 121 

words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with 
remarkable felicity: 

Through each gradation, ^ from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless. 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roofed shed; 
This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove — 
Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard — 
Can center in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would fly for through the earth; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers and approving heaven; 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. 



1. Through each gradation. From a poem on the death of the 
Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M. [Author's 
Note.] 



THE BROKEN HEARTS 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipped 
With care, that, hke the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

— MlDDLETON.2 

It is a common practice with those who have outlived the 
susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in 
the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love 
stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere 
fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human 
nature have induced me to think otherwise. They have 
convinced me that however the surface of the character 
may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cul- 
tivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there 
are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, 
which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are 
sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true 
believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his 
doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in broken hearts, 
and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I do not, 
however, consider it a malady fatal to my own sex; but I 
firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman 
into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His na- 
ture leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the 
world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or 

1. The Broken Heart. Compare this story with "The Wife," as 
an example of Irving's sentimental, pathetic style. Study it in detail 
also from the point of view of its departure from naturalness and simpli- 
city of diction. 2. Middleton, see note 2, page 68. 

122 



THE BROKEN HEART 123 

a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for 
fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and do- 
minion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a 
history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there 
her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks 
for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on 
adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of af- 
fection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for it is a 
bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs; it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it 
blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — 
he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupa- 
tion, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the 
scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, 
he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the 
wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost^ parts of 
the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers 
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot 
is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her 
heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and 
sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 
and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! 
As the dove- will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and 

1. fly to the uttermost, etc. Irving has combined two verses of 
the Bible here — Psalm Iv, 6, and Psalm cxxxix, 9. 2. As the dove, etc. 
Better poetry than ornithology. 



124 THE SKETCH BOOK 

conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the 
nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of 
wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is al- 
ways shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely 
breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in 
the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood 
among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the 
heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. 
She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the 
spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in 
healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — 
the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy 
dreams — "dry sorrow^ drinks her blood," until her en- 
feebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. 
Look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship 
weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, 
who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and 
beauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness 
and the worm."^ You will be told of some wintry chill, 
same casual indisposition, that laid her low; but no one 
knows of the mental malady which previously sapped her 
strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with 
the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly wither- 
ing, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it 
drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by 
leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the 
stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful 

1. dry sorrow, etc. From Romeo and Juliet, iii, v, 59: "Dry sorrow 
drinks our blood." 2. darkness and the worm. From Young's Night 
Thoughts, Bk. iv, 1. 10. 



THE BROKEN HEART 125 

ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt" 
that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and have re- 
peatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the 
various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disap- 
pointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to 
me; the circumstances are well known in the country where 
they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in 
which they were related. 

Everyone must recollect the tragical story of young 

E ,^ the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon 

forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, con- 
demned, and executed on a charge of treason. His fate 
made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so 
young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so every- 
thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct 
under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble in- 
dignation with which he repelled the charge of treason 
against his country — the eloquent vindication of his name — 
and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of 
condemnation — all these entered deeply into every generous 
bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that 
dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart whose anguish it would be im- 
possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, 
he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, 
the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved 

1. young E — , Robert Emmet (1778-1803), the Irish hero-patriot, 
celebrated in story and song. 



126 THE SKETCH BOOK 

him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and 
early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself 
against him, when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and 
danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more 
ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could 
awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been 
the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his 
image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb 
suddenly closed between them and the being they most 
loved on earth — ^who have sat at its threshold, as one shut 
out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most 
lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dis- 
honored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that 
could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender 
though melancholy circumstances which endear the parting 
scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent 
like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting 
hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had 
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- 
ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could 
the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a 
spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have 
experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a peo- 
ple of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate 
and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of 
wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they 
tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate 
her grief and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. 
But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity 
which scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the 
vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put 



THE BROKEN HEART 127 

forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the 
haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the 
depths of solitude, walking about in a sad reverie, ap- 
parently unconscious of the world around her. She carried 
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandish- 
ments of friendship, and "heeded not the song^ of the 
charmer, charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretched- 
ness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a 
scene. To find it wandering like a specter, lonely and joy- 
less, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the 
trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as 
if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momen- 
tary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the 
splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter ab- 
straction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra,^ 
and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with 
the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plain- 
tive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion 
it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul 
of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
around her, and melted everyone into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It 
completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his 
addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead 
could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined 

1. heeded not the song, etc. Adapted from Psalm Iviii, 5: "Which 
will not hearken to the voice of charmers, charming never so wisely." 
2. orchestra. From meaning the place or raised platform on which 
the musicians sat in the theater, the word has now come to mean more 
commonly the musicians themselves. 



128 THE SKETCH BOOK 

his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed 
by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted 
in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. 
He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her 
sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she 
was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at 
length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the sol- 
emn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She 
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to 
be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and de- 
vouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. 
She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at 
length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore,^ the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines: 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! 
He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 

They were all that to life had entwined him — 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 

Nor long will his love stay behind him! 
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. 

When they promise a glorious morrow; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow! 

1. Moore, Thomas (1779-1852), the author of Irish Melodies, from 
which this poem is taken, was later a warm friend of Irving's. 



THE ART OF BOOKMAKING 

If that severe doomi of Synesius- be true — "It is a greater offense 
to steal dead men's labor than their clothes" — what shall become of 
most writers? 

— Burton's^ Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the 
press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on 
which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barren- 
ness, should teem with voluminous productions. As a man 
travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of 
wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out 
some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. 
Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great 
metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me 
some of the mysteries of the bookmaking craft, and at 
once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great sa- 
loons^ of the British Museum, with that listlessness with 
which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm 
weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, 
sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian 
mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to 
comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. 
Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention 

1. doom means "judgment," "decision," as in "doomsday." 2. 
Synesius (378-430), bishop of Ptolemais, was the author of several 
philosophical writings. 3. Burton, Robert (1577-1640), published his 
Anatomy of Melancholy, his best known book, in 1621. Irving quotes 
from this author on his title page. 4. saloons, "halls" or "corridors." 
The word is of French origin. 

129 



130 THE SKETCH BOOK 

was attracted to a distant door at the end of a suite of 
apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would 
open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in 
black, would steal forth and glide through the rooms, with- 
out noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an 
air of mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, 
and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, and 
to explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded 
to my hand, with that facility with which the portals of 
enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I 
found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great 
cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under 
the cornice, were arranged a great number of black-looking 
portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed 
long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which 
sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently over 
dusty volumes, rummaging among moldy manuscripts, and 
taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness 
reigned through this mysterious apartment, excepting that 
you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or 
occasionally, the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he 
shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio; 
doubtless arising from that hoUowness and flatulency inci- 
dent to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a 
familiar^ would appear, take the paper in profound silence, 
glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with pon- 
derous tomes, upon which the other would fall tooth and 
nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that 

1. a familiar, an attendant spirit, a familiar spirit. Irving maintains 
this figure throughout the passage. 



THE ART OF BOOKMAKING 131 

I had happened upon a body of Magi, deeply engaged in 
the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of 
an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in an en- 
chanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened 
only once a year; where he made the spirits of the place 
bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at 
the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung 
open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden 
lore as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, 
and to control the powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one 
of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and 
begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A 
few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found that 
these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for 
Magi, were principally authors, and in the very act of manu- 
facturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading room of the 
great British Library — an immense collection of volumes of 
all ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, 
and most of which are seldom read — one of these seques- 
tered pools of obsolete literature, to which modern authors 
repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or "pure Eng- 
lish, undefiled,"^ wherewith to swell their own scanty rills 
of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. 
I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none 
but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. 
He was evidently constructing some work of profound eru- 

1. pure English, undefiled. The phrase "well of English undefyled" 
is used by Spenser, Faery Queene, Bk. iv, Canto ii, stanza 32, in speaking 
of Chaucer. 



132 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dition that would be purchased by every man who wished 
to be thought learned; placed upon a conspicuous shelf of 
his library, or laid open upon his table — but never read. I 
observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of bis- 
cuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was his dinner, 
or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion 
of the stomach produced by much pondering over dry 
works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of counte- 
nance, who had all the appearance of an author on good 
terms with his bookseller. After considering him attentively, 
I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous 
works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious 
to see how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir 
and show of business than any of the others — dipping into 
various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, 
taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, "line 
upon line,^ precept upon precept, here a little and there a 
little." The contents of his book seemed to be as hetero- 
geneous as those of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It 
was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind- 
w^orm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's 
blood, "^ to make the medley "slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes; may it not be the 
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds 
of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to 
age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which 

1. line upon line, etc., slightly altered from Isaiah xxviii, 10. 
2. baboon's blood .... slab and good. From Macbeth, iv, i, 32, 37. 



THE ART OF BOOKMAKING 133 

they were first produced? We see that nature has wisely, 
though whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds 
from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds; so that 
animals, which, in themselves, are little better than carrion, 
and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and 
the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to disperse and 
perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and 
fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up 
by these flights of predator}^ writers, and cast forth again 
to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of 
time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metem- 
psychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was for- 
merly a ponderous history revives in the shape of a romance 
— an old legend changes into a modem play — and a sober 
philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series 
of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clear- 
ing of our American woodlands, where we burn down a 
forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in 
their place, and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree 
moldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe 
of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the 
great law of nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes 
of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which de- 
crees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Genera- 
tion after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, 
passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to pos- 
terity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do 
authors beget authors, and having produced a numerous 
progeny, in a good old age, they sleep with their fathers, 



134 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ihat is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and 
from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works; 
or to the profound quiet of the room; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky habit of 
napping at improper times and places, with which I am 
grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, 
however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the 
same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little 
changed in some of the details. I dreamed that the chamber 
was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, 
but that the number was increased. The long tables had 
disappeared, and, in place of the sage Magi, I beheld a 
ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying 
about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth 
Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those 
incongruities common to dreams, methought it turned into 
a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they 
proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no 
one pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, 
but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt 
from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while 
some of his original rags would peep out from among his 
borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several moldy polemical writers through an 
eyeglass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous 
mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having purloined the 
gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly wise; 



THE ART OF BOOKMAKING 135 

but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at 
naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking 
gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment 
with gold thread drawn out of several old court dresses 
of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed 
himself magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, had 
stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from "The Paradise 
of Daintie Devices,"^ and having put Sir Philip Sidney's 
hat^ on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite 
air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny di- 
mensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils 
from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a 
very imposing front; but he was lamentably tattered in 
rear, and I perceived that he had patched his smallclothes 
with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, 
too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, 
merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their 
air and spirit; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt 
to array thembclves from top to toe in the patchwork man- 
ner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one 
genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, 
who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose 
rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of 



1. The Paradise of Daintie Devices, a miscellany of English verse, 
published by Richard Edwards, in 1576. 2. Sidney's hat. Sir Philip 
Sidney (1554-1586), author of Arcadia, was one of the most famous 
writers of his time. His Arcadia is a pastoral romance and the reference 
to the hat is an allusion to the shepherd's costume. The "Arcadian 
hat" is mentioned again on this page. 



136 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Primrose Hill/ and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He 
had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from all the old 
pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went 
about with a fantastical lackadaisical air, "babbling about 
green fields."- But the personage that most struck my 
attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, 
with a remarkably large and square, but bald, head. He 
entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way 
through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, 
and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped 
it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a for- 
midable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves!" I looked, 
and lo! the portraits about the wall became animated! The 
old authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from 
the canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the 
motley throng, and then descended with fury in their eyes, 
to claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and 
hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy 
culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their plunder. 
On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping 
a modern professor; on another, there was sad devastation 
carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beau- 
mont and Fletcher,^ side by side, raged round the field like 
Castor and Pollux,* and sturdy Ben Jonson^ enacted more 

1. Primrose Hill lies just north of Regent's Park in London. A 
good view of the city is obtained from its top. 2. babbling about green 
fields. From Henry V, ii, iii, 17, in the Hostess's account of the death 
of Falstaff. 3. Beaumont, Francis (1584-1616) and Fletcher, John 
(1579-1625) were Elizabethan dramatists who wrote many plaj^s in 
collaboration. 4. Castor and Pollux, twin divinities. Castor was 
a horse-tamer, Pollux, a master of the art of boxing. 5. Ben Jonson 
(1573?-1637) in his youth was a soldier in Flanders, where "he 
challenged and slew one of the enemy in single fight." 



THE ART OF BOOKMAKING 137 

wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. 
As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some 
time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and 
colors as Harlequin/ and there was as fierce a contention of 
claimants about him as about the dead body of Patroclus.^ 
I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accus- 
tomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off 
with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my 
eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in the 
Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore af- 
fright with half a score of authors in full cry after him. 
They were close upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off went 
his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled 
away; until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, 
he shrunk into a little, pursy, "chopped bald shot,"^ and 
made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at 
his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of 
this learned Theban,"* that I burst into an immoderate fit of 
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual 
appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their pic- 
ture frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the 
walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, 
with the whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me 
with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real 
but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in 
that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wis- 
dom as to electrify the fraternity. 

1. Harlequin is a character in the old-fashioned pantomime. 2. 
Patroclus, a Greek warrior, was killed by Hector. The Greeks and 
Trojans fought for the possession of his body. 3. chopped bald shot. 
See Henry IV, Part 2, iii, ii, 294. 4. learned Theban. Lear's de- 
scription of the mad Edgar. King Lear, iii, v, 162. 



138 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not com- 
prehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kind 
of literary "preserve," subject to game laws, and that no one 
must presume to hunt there without special license and per- 
mission. In a v/ord I stood convicted of being an arrant 
poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest 
I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me. 



A ROYAL POETi 

Though yolir body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

— FLETCnER.2 

On a soft, sunny morning in the genial month of May, I 
made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of 
storied and poetical associations. The very external as- 
pect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. 
It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural 
crown round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal ban- 
ner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly air, upon 
the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous ver- 
nal kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's 
temperament, filling his mind with music, and disposing 
him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering 
through the magnificent saloons and long, echoing galleries 
of the castle, I passed with indifference by whole rows of 
portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the 
chamber where hang the likenesses of the beauties which^ 
graced the gay court of Charles the Second; and as I 
gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, half-disheveled 
tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of 
Sir Peter Lely,^ which had thus enabled me to bask in the 

1. A Royal Poet. James I, of Scotland (1394-1437), was a follower 
and imitator of Chaucer. From 1405 to 1424 he was held in captivity 
in England. 2. Fletcher. See note 3, page 136. 3. which, etc. The 
pronoun who seems more natural here. 4. Sir Peter Lely (1618- 
1680) is famous for his portraits of the court beauties of his time. 

139 



140 THE SKETCH liOOK 

reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the ''large green 
courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls and glanc- 
ing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the 
image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey,^ and 
his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, 
when enamored of the Lady Geraldine — 

With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With casie sighs, such as men draw in love. 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the 
ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scot- 
land, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, 
was for many 3^ears of his youth detained a prisoner of state. 
It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, 
and is still in good preservation. It stands on a mound, 
which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and 
a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the armory, 
a Gothic hall furnished with weapons of various kinds and 
ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, 
which had once belonged to James. Hence I was conducted 
up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded magnifi- 
cence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, 
and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour which 
has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of 
poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince 
is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent 

1. Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517?-1547), lived from 
1530 to 1532, at Windsor as companion to a son of Henry VHI. In 
1537 he was temporarily imprisoned at Windsor and devoted the time' 
to the writing of poetry. He was accused of treason, convicted, and 
executed in 1547. The Lady Geraldine of his poems is an idealization 
of the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, who was only nine years old at the 
time of Surrey's imprisonment at Windsor. 



A ROYAL POET 141 

from home by his father, Robert III, and destined for the 
French court, to be reared under the eye of the French mon- 
arch, secure from the treachery and danger that surrounded 
the royal house of Scotland. It was his mishap in the 
course of his voyage to fall into the hands of the English, 
and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV, notwithstanding 
that a truce existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy 
father. "The news,"^ we are told, "was brought to him 
while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief that 
he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of 
the servant that attended him. But being carried to his 
bedchamber he abstained from all food, and in three days 
died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; 
but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with 
the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him 
in all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that 
period, and to give him those mental and personal accom- 
plishments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this 
respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled 
him to apply himself the more exclusively to his improve- 
ment, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, 
and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have given such 
a luster to his memory. The picture drawn of him in early 
life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, and 
seems rather the description of a hero of romance than 

1. The news, etc. Quoted from George Buchanan (1506-1582), who 
wrote a history of Scotland in Latin, which was published in 1581-1582. 
It was long a standard reference book and was translated into many- 
languages. 



142 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of a character in real history. He was well learnt/ we are 
told, "to fight^ with the sword, to just, to tourney, to 
wrestle, to sing and dance; he was an expert mediciner, 
right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, and sundry 
other instruments of music, and was expert in grammar,^ 
oratory, and poetry." 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, 
and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous ex- 
istence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle 
and chivalry, to pass the springtime of his years in monot- 
onous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, how- 
ever, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be 
visited .in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. 
Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of 
personal liberty; others grow morbid and irritable; but it is 
the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginative in 
the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey 
of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth 
his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen* the nightingale, 

A pilgrim cooped into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination that 
it is irrepressible, unconfinable; that when the real world is 

1. He v/as well learnt. The transitive use of learn in the sense of 
"teach" is common in older English and is here probablj^ a conscious 
archaism on Irving's part. 2. to fight, etc. Quoted from Ballenden's 
translation of Hector Boyce. 3. expert in grammar. Grammar meant, 
in earlier periods, specifically Latin grammar. A "grammar school" 
was originally so called because Latin was the chief subject taught. 
4. Have you not seen, etc., quoted from Roger L'Estrange (1616- 
1704), an English journalist. 



A ROYAL POET 143 

shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necro- 
mantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms and 
brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and irradiate 
the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and 
pageant that lived round Tasso^ in his dismal cell at 
Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his 
Jerusalem; and we may consider the "King's Quair," com- 
posed by James, during his captivity at Windsor, as another 
of those beautiful breakings-forth of the soul from the re- 
straint and gloom of the prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess 
of the blood royal of England, of whom he became enam- 
ored in the course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar 
value is that it may be considered a transcript of the royal 
bard's true feelings, and the story of his real loves and for- 
tunes. It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that 
poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a com- 
mon man to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for ad- 
mission into his closet, and seeking to win his favor by ad- 
ministering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest 
equality of intellectual competition, which strips off all the 
trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down 
to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend 
on his own native powers for distinction. It is curious, 
too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to find 
the simple affections of human nature throbbing under the 
ermine. But James had learned to be a poet before he was 
a king ; he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the com- 
pany of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to 



1. Tasso, Torquato (1544-1595), author of Jerusalem Delivered, 
suffered from mental delusions and was for some years confined in a cell 
at l^'errara. 



144 THE SKETCH BOOK 

parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into 
poetry; and had James been brought up amidst the adula- 
tion and gayety of a court, we should never, in all proba- 
bility, have had such a poem as the ''Quair." 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his 
situation, or which are connected with the apartment in the 
tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are 
given with such circumstantial truth as to make the reader 
present with the captive in his prison, and the companion 
of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of 
spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea of 
writing the poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moon- 
light night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the 
high vault of heaven; and "Cynthia rinsing her golden 
locks in Aquarius."^ He lay in bed wakeful and restless, 
and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he 
chose was Boethius's" Consolations of Philosophy , a work 
popular among the writers of that day, and which had been 
translated by his great prototype, Chaucer. From the high 
eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of 
his favorite volumes while in prison; and indeed it is an 
admirable textbook for meditation under adversity. It is 
the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sor- 
row and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity 

1. Cynthia .... Aquarius. Cynthia is one of the names of 
Diana, the goddess of the moon: Aquarius is a sign of the zodiac. The 
literal meaning of Aquarius is " water-carrier," hence the figure expressed 
by "rinsing." 2. Boethius was a Roman senator who was executed in 
525. His book, De Consolatione Philosophiae is a Latin philosophical 
treatise written during his confinement in prison. It has been translated 
into English by King Alfred, Chaucer, Queen Elizabeth, and also by 
several modern scholars. 



A ROYAL POET 145 

the maxims of sweet morality and the trains of eloquent 
but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up 
against the various ills of life. It is a talisman which the 
unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good 
King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume he turns its contents over in 
his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the 
fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and 
the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. 
Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins; but its sound, 
chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a 
voice exhorting him to write his story. In the spirit of 
poetic errantry he determines to comply with this intima- 
tion. He therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it a 
sign of the' cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth 
into the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely 
fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a 
striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner in 
which whole trains of practical thought are sometimes awak- 
ened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and in- 
active life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of 
the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unre- 
strained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very com- 
plaints; they are the lamentations of an amiable and social 
spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and gener- 
ous propensities; there is nothing in them harsh nor exag- 
gerated; they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and 
are perhaps rendered more touching by their simple brevity. 
They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated re- 
pinings which we sometimes meet with in poetry — the ef- 



146 THE SKETCH BOOK 

fusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their 
own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffend- 
ing world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensi- 
bility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if his 
manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 
When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however 
brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering that 
extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a roman- 
tic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood 
of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigor- 
ous delights of life; as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes 
forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual 
blindness.^ 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might also have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy 
reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene 
of his story; and to contrast with that refulgence of light 
and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird 
and song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the 
year, with which he ushers in the lady of his -heart. It is 
this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic of ro- 
mance about the old Castle Keep. He had risen, he says, 
at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from the dreary 
meditations of a sleepless pillow. "Bewailing in his cham- 
ber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, "for- 
tired^ of thought and woebegone," he had wandered to the 
window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace of gazing 
wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. The 

1, his perpetual blindness. Milton became blind in 1652, when he 
was 44 years old. 2. fortired. The prefix /or in "fortired" is an inten- 
sive. The word means "very tired." 



A ROYAL POET 147 

window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the 
foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned 
with arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing 
gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyfi was none, walkyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 

Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis^ set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song — 

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom ; 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the lan- 
guage of his enamored feeling: 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 
For of your bliss the kalends^ are begun, 

And sing with us, away, winter, away. 
Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

1. lyf, person. 2. twistis, small boughs or twigs. 3. kalends, 
a Greek term for the first days of the month; the word is used bf^"" 
merely in the sense of "beginning." 



148 THE SKETCH BOOK 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the 
birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and un- 
definable reveries which fill the youthful bosom in this deli- 
cious season. He wonders what this love may be, of which 
he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth 
in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature 
into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, 
and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most in- 
significant beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoy- 
ments? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 
That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find: 
May he oure heartes setten^ and unbynd: 

Hath he upon our heartes such maistrye?^ 

Or is all this but feynit^ fantasye? 

For giff"* he be of so grete excellence. 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt^ to him, or done offense. 
That I am thralled, and birdis go at large? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
beholds ''the fairest and the freshest young floure" that ever 
he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the gar- 
den to enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." 
Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of 
loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once captivates 
the fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes the object of 
his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. 
There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance 

1. setten, incline. 2. maistrye, mastery. 3. feynit, "feigned." 
4. gifif, "If." 5. gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 



A ROYAL POET 149 

to the early part of Chaucer's ''Knight's Tale," where Pala- 
mon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see 
walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the simi- 
larity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read 
in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in his 
poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the pic- 
turesque and minute manner of his master; and being doubt- 
less taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of 
that day. He dwells, w^ith the fondness of a lover, on every 
article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with 
emeralds and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even 
to the "goodly chaine of small orfeverye"^ about her neck, 
whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, 
he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. 
Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her to 
walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two 
female attendants, and about her sported a little hound 
decorated with bells; probably the small Italian hound of 
exquisite symmetry which was a parlor favorite and pet 
among the fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes 
his description by a burst of general eulogium: 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature; 

God better knows than my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse 2 estate,-^ and cunning-* sure, 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 

That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end 
to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the 

1. orfeverye, wrought gold. 2. largesse, bounty. 3. estate, 
dignity. 4. cunning, discretion. 



150 THE SKETCH BOOK 

amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the 
scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now 
rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of 
unattainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he 
repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches, 
and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had "bade fare- 
well to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, 
and, laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a 
mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the 
mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, "half sleep- 
ing, half swoon," into a vision, which occupies the remainder 
of the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the 
history of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, 
questions his spirit, whither it has been wandering; whether, 
indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has 
been conjured up by preceding circumstances; or whether it 
is a vision, intended to comfort and assure him in his de- 
spondency. If the latter, he prays that some token may be 
sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his 
slumbers. Suddenly a turtle dove of the purest whiteness 
comes flying in at the window and alights upon his hand, 
bearing in her bifl a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves 
of which is written, in letters of gold, the following sentence: 

Awake! awake! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread; 
reads it with rapture; and this, he says, was the first token 



A ROYAL POET 151 

of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic 
fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a 
token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be 
determined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. 
He concludes his poem, by intimating that the promise con- 
veyed in the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by his being 
restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession of the 
sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute 
fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless 
to conjecture. Let us not, however, reject every romantic 
incident as incompatible with real life, but let us sometimes 
take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely those parts 
of the poem immediately connected with the tower, and have 
passed over a large part, written in the allegorical vein, so 
much cultivated at that day. The language, of course, is 
quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its 
golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day; 
but it is impossible not to be charmed with the genuine senti- 
ment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, which prevail 
throughout it. The descriptions of nature, too, with which 
it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, 
and a freshness worthy of the most cultivated periods of the 
art. 

As an amatory poem it is edifying in these days of coarser 
thinking to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite 
delicacy which pervade it, banishing every gross thought 
or immodest expression, and presenting female loveliness 
clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural 
purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and 

1 



152 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Gower/ and was evidently an admirer and studier of their 
writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges 
them as his masters; and, in some parts of his poem, we find 
traces of similarity to their productions, more especially to 
those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general fea- 
tures of resemblance in the works of contemporary authors, 
which are not so much borrowed from each other as from the 
times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; 
they incorporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes 
and thoughts current in society; and thus each generation 
has some features in common, characteristic of the age in 
which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our 
literary history, and establishes the claims of his country to 
a participation in its primitive honors. Whilst a small clus- 
ter of English writers are constantly cited as the fathers of 
our verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is apt 
to be passed over in silence; but he is evidently worthy of 
being enrolled in that little constellation of remote but never- 
failing luminaries who shine in the highest firmament of 
literature, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the 
bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish 
history (though the manner in which it has of late been 
woven with captivating fiction" has made it a universal 
study), may be curious to learn something of the subsequent 
history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His passion 
for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it 
facilitated his release, it being imagined by the court that a 

1. Chaucer, Geoffrey, (1340?-1400), and Gower, John (1325?-1408). 
These poets wrote in the form of the language known as Middle English. 
Irving understates the dependence of James on Chaucer. 2. cap- 
tivating fiction. The allusion is to Sir Walter Scott and his historical 
romances. 



A ROYAL POET 153 

connection with the blood royal of England would attach 
him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his 
liberty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady 
Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a 
most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregu- 
larities of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in 
their possessions, and place themselves above the power of 
the lavv^s. James sought to found the basis of his power in 
the affections of his people. He attached the lower orders to 
him by the reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable 
administration of justice, the encouragement of the arts of 
peace, and the promotion of everything that could diffuse 
comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment through the 
humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasionally among 
the common people in disguise; visited their firesides; 
entered into their cares, their pursuits, and their amuse- 
ments; informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how 
they could best be patronized and improved; and was thus 
an all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over 
the meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous man- 
ner made himself strong in the hearts of the common people, 
he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility; 
to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had 
usurped; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant 
offenses ; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the 
crown. For some time they bore this with outward submis- 
sion, but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A 
conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the head 
of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, 
who, being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed 
of blood, instigated his grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, 



154 THE SKETCH BOOK 

together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to 
commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the 
Dominican Convent near Perth, where he was residing, and 
barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His 
faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between 
him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual 
attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until 
she had been forcibly torn from his person that the murder 
was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace 
in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than 
common interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, 
richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tourney, 
brought the image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly 
before my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers 
where he had composed his poem; I leaned upon the window, 
and endeavored to persuade myself it was the very one where 
he had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot 
where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same 
genial and joyous month; the birds were again vying with 
each other in strains of liquid melody; everything was burst- 
ing into vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise of 
the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner 
memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over 
this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his 
desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the 
garden still flourishes at the foot of the Tower. It occupies 
what was once the moat of the Keep ; and though some parts 
have been separated by dividing walls, yet others have still 
their arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James, and 
the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a 



A ROYAL POET 155 

charm about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps 
of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of 
the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired, by the 
lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow 
every place in which it moves; to breathe around nature an 
odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to 
shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 
Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a 
warrior and legislator; but I have delighted to view him 
merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor 
of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the 
sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common 
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy 
plant of Scottish genius, which has since become so prolific 
of the most wholesome and highly-flavored fruit. He carried 
with him into the sterner regions of the north all the fertiliz- 
ing arts of southern refinement. He did everything in his 
power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and 
gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of a people, 
and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and war- 
like spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for 
the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the world; one, 
which is still preserved, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green,"^ 
shows how diligently he had made himself acquainted with 
the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute such a 
source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish peas- 
antry; and with what simple and happy humor he could en- 
ter into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to im- 
prove the national music; and traces of his tender sentiment 
and elegant taste are said to exist in those witching airs, 

1. Christ's Kirk of the Green. The correct form of the title of this 
poem is "Christ's Kirk on the Green." It has not been certainly es- 
tablished that James was the author of it. 



156 THE SKETCH BOOK 

still piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of 
Scotland. He has thus connected his image with whatever 
is most gracious and endearing in the national character; 
he has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name 
to after ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The 
recollection of these things was kindling at my heart as I 
paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited 
Vaucluse^ with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would 
visit the shrine at Loretto;" but I have never felt more 
poetical devotion than when contemplating the old Tower 
and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the ro- 
mantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet of 
Scotland. 



1. Vaucluse is a place in the south of France, celebrated as for many 
years the place of residence of the Italian poet Petrarch. Irving has 
some interesting remarks about Vaucluse in Life and Letters, Vol, I, 
Chap. iv. 2. Loretto was and still is a popular place of pilgrimage 
in Italy. Miracles of healing were supposed to be wrought there at 
the shrine of the Virgin. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

A gentleman ! 
What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or lists of velvet? which is't, pound, or yard. 
You vend your gentry by? 

— Beggar's Bush.i 

There are few places more favorable to the study of char- 
acter than an English country church. I was once passing 
a few weeks at the seat of a friend who resided in the vicinity 
of one, the appearance of which particularly struck my 
fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity 
which give such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It 
stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient families, 
and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congre- 
gated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls 
were incrusted with monuments of every age and style. The 
light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial^bear- 
ings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts 
of the church were tombs of knights and high-born dames, 
of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored 
marble. On every side the eye was strucl^'wffi'some instance 
of aspiring jnortali _t>^ ; some haughty memorial which human 
pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the 
most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people 
of rank, who sat in pews, sum.ptuouslyjined and cushioned, 
furnished with richly-gilded prayer books, and decorated 
with their arms upon the pew doors; of the_villagexs and 
peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery 

1. Beggar's Bush, a comedy by John Fletcher (1579-*1625). 

157 



nS8 THE SKETCH BOOK 

beside the organ; and of the poor of the parish, who were 
ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling , well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privi- 
leged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had 
been the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and 
good living had disabled him from doing anything more than 
ride to see the hounds throw off,^ and make one at the hunt- 
ing dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible 
to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place. 
So, having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised 
with my conscience by laying the sin of my own delinquency 
at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making 
observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice 
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, 
that there was the least pretension where there was the most 
acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, 
for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, 
consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be 
more simple and unassuming than their appearance. They 
generally came to church in 'the plainest equipage, and often 
on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the 
kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and 
listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their counte- 
nances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of 
high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, 
and an engaging aff_ability. Their brothers were tall, and 
elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably but 

1. throw off. The phrase is a hunting term, referring to the un- 
coupling of the hounds at the beginning of the hunt. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 159 

simply, with strict neatness and propriety but without any 
mannerism or^fo2pish.ne5S. Their whole demeanor was easy 
and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness 
which bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked 
in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a health- 
ful hardiness about real dignity that never dreads contact 
and communion with others, however humble. It is only 
spurious p ride that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from 
every touch. I was pleased to see the manner in which they 
would converse with the peasantry about those rural con- 
cerns and field-sports, in which the gentlemen of this coun- 
try so much delight. In these conversations there was 
neither haughtiness on the one part nor servility on the 
other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank 
by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, 
who had amassed a vast fortune; and, having purchased the 
estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbor- 
hood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of 
an hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to 
church en prince} They were rolled majestically along in a 
carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver 
radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could 
possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, 
richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy 
face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside 
him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets 
and gold-headed canes, lolled behinHT'^he carriage rose and 
sunk on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. 
The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and 
glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses ; either 

1. en prince, in princely style. 



160 THE SKETCH BOOK 

because they had caught a little of the family feeling, or 
were reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. 
There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle 
of the wall; a great smacking of the whip, straining and 
scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of 
wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph 
and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged and 
checked until they were fretted into a foam. They threw 
out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at 
every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to 
church, opened precipitately to the right and left, gaping in 
vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses were 
pulled up with a suddenness that produced an immediate 
stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the 
descent on earth of this^Uj^ust family. The old citizen first 
emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about 
him with the ^^OffiELQ^s air of a man accustomed to rule on 
'Change, and shake the stock market with a nod. His con- 
sort^ a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There 
seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. 
She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The 
world went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had 
fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every- 
thing was fine about her — it was nothing but driving about, 
and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; 
it was one long Lord Mayor's Day.^ 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 

1. one long Lord Mayor's Day. The day on which the Lord Mayor 
is inaugurated is a day of general, popular celebration in London. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 161 

certainly were handsome, but had a supercilious air that 
chilled admiration and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
They were ultra-fashionable in dress; and, though no one 
could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appro- 
priateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of a 
country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, 
and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed 
dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursiv-^^lance 
around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the 
peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, 
when their countenances immediately brightened into smiles, 
and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, 
which were returned in alnannef that showed they were but 
slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders.^ 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable 
p retension s to style. They kept entirely by themselves, 
eying everyone askance that came near them, as if measur- 
ing his claims to respectability; yet they were without con- 
versation, except the exchange of an occasional cant- phrase. 
They even moved artificially; for their bodies, in compliance 
with the caprice of the day, had been disciplined into the 
absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done everything 
to accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature had denied 
them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like 
men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that 
air o f superc ilious assumption which is never seen in the true 
gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 

1. outriders are grooms or servants on horseback who accompany 
persons riding in a carriage. 2. cant, "slang." 



162 THE SKETCH BOOK 

two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
often to be met with in this country — tjie unpretending 
^eat, an^d the_ajn:o^ little. I have no respect for titled 
rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul; 
but I have remarked in all countries where artificial distinc- 
tions exist that the very highest classes are always the most 
courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of 
their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others ; 
whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, 
which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared toliave any fervor of devotioti, but rather a respect 
for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good 
breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual 
flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness 
of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of a 
rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon 
himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses 
with a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. 
It was evident that he was one of those thorough church- 
and-king men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty;^ 
who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the govern- 
ment party, and religion "a very excellent sort of thing, that 
ought to be countenanced and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 

1. devotion and loyalty. One must remember the close connection 
which exists in England between church and state to get the full meaning 
of Irving's picture of this respectable and loyal person. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 163 

by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that 
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being relig- 
ious; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly 
a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, 
and pronouncing it "excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness 
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and 
their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home 
across the fields, chatting with the country people as they 
went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. 
Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There 
was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and 
the glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at 
a bound; the villagers again hurried to right and left; the 
wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and the aspiring family 
was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind.^ 

1. rapt out of sight in a whirlwind, an effective semi-allusion to the 
ascent of Elijah, 2 Kings ii, ii: "And Elijah went up by a whirlwind 
into heaven." 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rained. 

— Marlowe's! Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters, 
must have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape 
on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring 
stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the 
whistling of the plowman, the rattling of the cart, and all 
other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The very farm 
dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by passing 
travelers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds 
sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh 
green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed 
calm. 

Sweet day,- so pure, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a 
day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of 
nature has its moral influence; every restless passion is 
charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul 
gently springing up within us. For my part, there are feel- 
ings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beautiful 
serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; and if 
not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday 
than on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used fre- 

1. Marlowe, Christopher (1564-1593), English dramatist. 2. 
Sweet day, etc. From the opening of the poem Virtue, by George 
Herbert (1593-1633), in his Temple (1631). 

164 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 165 

quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy 
aisles; its moldering monuments; its dark oaken paneling, 
all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit 
it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy 
aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated 
even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself continually thrown 
back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor 
worms around me. The only being in the whole congre- 
gation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and 
prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old 
woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. 
She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. 
The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. 
Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously 
clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for 
she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat 
alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived 
all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left 
her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising 
and bending her aged form in prayer, habitually conning her 
prayer book which her palsied hand and failing eyes would 
not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by 
heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor 
woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, 
the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this 
was so delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. 
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a 
beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach 
of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by 
yew trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall 
Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks 



166 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one 
still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging 
a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neg- 
lected corners of the churchyard, where, from the number 
of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent 
and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that 
the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, 
which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the 
bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the 
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. 
A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other cover- 
ing, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked 
before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock 
mourners^ in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one 
real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was 
the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom 
I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sup- 
ported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort 
her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and 
some children of the village were running hand in hand, now 
shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, 
with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with 
prayer book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, 
however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been 
destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled 
through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The 
well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; 

1. mock mourners. It was formerly customary to have hired mourn- 
ers attend funerals. The custom is again referred to on page 212. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 167 

his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did 
I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching cere- 
mony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffm was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the de- 
ceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother 
had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her 
withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could per- 
ceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive 
motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of 
her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the 
feelings of grief and affection; directions given in the cold 
tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and 
gravel — which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, 
the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the 
mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, 
and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men ap- 
proached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she 
wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The 
poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavor- 
ing to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something 
like consolation — "Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so 
sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring 
her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of 
the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some acci- 
dental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the 
tenderness of the mother burst forth, as if any harm could 
come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffer- 
ing. 



168 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — 
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a bar- 
barous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of 
maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the 
churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had 
dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my 
heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of 
the rich! They have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile 
— a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the 
sorrows of the young! Their growing minds soon close above 
the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pres- 
sure — their green and ductile affections soon twine round 
new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no out- 
ward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with 
whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for 
no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, soli- 
tary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
her years; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the 
impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my 
way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as 
comforter. She was just returning from accompanying the 
mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some 
particulars connected with the affecting scene I had wit- 
nessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, 
and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a 
small garden, had supported themselves creditably and com- 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 169 

fortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had 
one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their 
age. "Oh, sir! " said the good woman, "he was such a comely 
lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to everyone around him, so 
dutiful to his parents! It did one's heart good to see him of 
a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so 
cheery, supporting his old mother to church — for she was 
always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her good 
man's; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a 
finer lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service 
of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. 
He had not been long in this employ when he was entrapped 
by a press gang,^ and carried off to sea. His parents received 
tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn noth- 
ing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, who 
was already infirm, grew heartless^ and melancholy, and sunk 
into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feeble- 
ness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the 
parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout 
the village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest 
inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which she 
had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain 
in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few 
wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty pro- 
ductions of her little garden, which the neighbors would now 
and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the 
time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was 
gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the 

1. press gang, a band of ruffians hired to kidnap young men for 
compulsory service at sea. 2. heartless. The usual word is "dis- 
heartened." 



170 THE SKETCH BOOK 

cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A 
stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and 
wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was 
emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken 
by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank 
on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor 
woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — 
"Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son, your 
poor boy, George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once 
noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign 
imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs 
homeward to repose among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a 
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended. 
Still he was alive! He was come home! He might yet live 
to comfort and cherish her old age! Nature, however, was 
exhausted in him ; and if anything had been wanting to finish 
the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would 
have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on 
which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, 
and he never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and 
assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too 
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His 
mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling 
to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in ad- 
vanced life, in sickness and despondency, who that has pined 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 171 

on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign 
land, but has thought on the mother "that looked on his 
childhood/' that soothed his pillow, and administered to 
his helplessness? i^Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the 
love of a mother to her son that transcends all other affec- 
tions of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, 
nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his 
convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoy- 
ment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity; 
and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer- to her 
from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she 
will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if 
all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to 
him.\ 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 
ness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to 
visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; 
if she moved awa}^, his eye would follow her. She would sit 
for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes 
he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up 
until he saw her bending over him; when he would take her 
hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tran- 
quillity of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction 
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer 
pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, 
however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers 
had prompted them to do everything that the case admitted ; 
and as the poor know best how to console each other's sor- 
rows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, to my 



172 THE SKETCH BOOK 

surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle 
to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this 
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty — a black 
ribbon or so, a faded black handkerchief, and one or two 
more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that 
grief which passes show. When I looked round upon the 
storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble 
pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over 
departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down 
by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offering up 
the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I 
felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them 
all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted 
themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few 
steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I 
left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, 
that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin 
those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known 
and friends are never parted. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON^ 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday 
in the country, and its tranquilizing effect upon the land- 
scape, but where is its sacred influence more strikingly ap- 
parent than in the very heart of that great Babel, London? 
On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into 
repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at 
an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manu- 
factories are extinguished; and the sun, no longer obscured 
by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radi- 
ance into the quiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, 
instead of hurrying forward with anxious countenances, move 
leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles 
of business and care; they have put on their Sunday looks, 
and Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are 
cleansed in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers 
summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from 
his mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small 
children in the advance; then the citizen and his comely 
spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters, with small 
morocco-bound prayer books laid in the folds of their pocket 
handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the 
window, admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, 
perhaps, a nod and smile from her young mistresses, at whose 
toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the 
city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and now the 

1. A Sunday In London. Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding 
editions. [Author's Note.] 

173 



174 THE SKETCH BOOK 

patter of many feet announces a procession of charity schol- 
ars in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a prayer book 
under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the car- 
riage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the 
flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes 
and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle 
keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of 
the sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed ; but soon is 
heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and 
vibrating through the empty lanes and courts; and the sweet 
chanting of the choir making them resound with melody and 
praise. Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying 
effect of church music than when I have heard it thus 
poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost recesses 
of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the 
sordid pollutions of the week; and bearing the poor, world- 
worn soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again 
alive with the congregations returning to their homes, but 
soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday 
dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some im- 
portance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the 
board. Members of the family can now gather together, who 
are separated by the laborious occupations of the week. A 
schoolboy may be permitted on that day to come to the 
paternal home; an old friend of the family takes his accus- 
tomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well-known 
stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to 
breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and 
rural environs. Satirists may say what they please about the 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 175 

rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me 
there is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner 
of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth 
once a week aftd throw himself upon the green bosom of 
nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast; 
and they who first spread out these noble parks and magnifi- 
cent pleasure grounds which surround this huge metropolis, 
have done at least as much for its health and morality as if 
they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, 
and penitentiaries. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EAJTCHEAPi 
A SHAKESPEAREAN RESEARCH 

A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fel- 
lows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell how his great great- 
grandfather should say that it was an old proverb when his great- 
grandfather was a child, that "it was a good wind that blew a man 
to the wine." — Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor 
the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their 
pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known 
by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to 
molder in the darkness of his little chapel ; another may have 
a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy; 
while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of 
some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings 
his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot his seven-branched 
candlestick, and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means 
satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased 
unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The con- 
sequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often 
apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint 
almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his 
followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. 
Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some 

1. The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap, is the place of action of 
several scenes of Henry IV, Part I. The tavern of Shakespeare's time 
was burned down in 1666, but was rebuilt on the same site. This second 
tavern was demolished in 1757. Shakespeare's play, or at least the 
scenes in which Falstaff appears, should be read in connection with this 

176 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 177 

portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit 
from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, pro- 
duces vast tomes of dissertations; the common herd of editors 
send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of 
each page; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing 
rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense 
and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage 
to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, 
however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this 
duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new 
reading; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen dif- 
ferent ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; 
and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised by 
previous admirers; nay, so completely had the bard, of late, 
been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic 
that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been 
argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
Henry IV, and was, in a moment, completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and 
naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such 
force and consistency are the characters sustained that they 
become mingled up in the mind with the facts and person- 
ages of real life. To few readers does it occur that these are 
all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, 
no such knot of merry roisterers ever enlivened the dull 
neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valu- 



178 THE SKETCH BOOK 

able to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years 
since; and, if I may be excused such an insensibility to the 
common ties of human nature, I would not give up Fat Jack^ 
for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the 
heroes of yore done for me, or men like me? They have con- 
quered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre; or they 
have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf; or they 
have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I 
have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. 
But old Jack Falstaff! — kind Jack Falstaff! — sweet Jack 
Falstaff ! — has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment. 
He has added vast regions of wit and good humor, in which 
the poorest man may revel; and has bequeathed a never- 
failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier 
and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me: "I will make a pilgrimage 
to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and see if the old 
Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may 
light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her 
guests; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure in tread- 
ing the halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper 
enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with generous 
wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. 
I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I 
encountered in my travels: of the haunted regions of Cock 
Lane;- of the faded glories of Little Britain and the parts 
adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old 

1. Fat Jack, Sir John Falstaff, comic character in Shakespeare's 
Merry Wives of Windsor and Henry IV. 2. the haunted regions of 
Cock Lane. The Cock Lane ghost was a nine days' wonder of the 
year 1762. Dr. Samuel Johnson investigated and exposed the im- 
posture. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 179 

Jewry ;^ of the renowned Guildhall- and its two stunted 
giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all 
unlucky urchins; and how I visited London Stone,^ and 
struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch rebel, Jack 
Cade. 

Let it suffice to say that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the 
very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding 
Lane bears testimony even at the present day. For East- 
cheap, says old Stowe,"^ "was always famous for its con- 
vivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, 
pies well baked, and other victuals; there was clattering of 
pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is 
the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old 
Stowe! The madcap roisterer has given place to the plodding 
tradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of "harpe 
and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed dinging 
of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, haply, the 
strain of some siren from Billingsgate,^ chanting the eulogy 
of deceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, 
which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into 

1. Old Jewry, still the name of a London street, derives its name 
from a synagogue which formerly stood there. 2. Guildhall is the 
ancient council hall of the city of London. The two giants are two 
wooden figures 14J feet high, carved in 1708, and known as Gog and 
Magog. 3. London Stone is an old Roman milestone. When in 
the rebellion of 1450 Jack Cade entered London, he struck this stone 
with his sword and proclaimed his authority over the city. It is built 
in the wall of the church of St. Swithin. 4. Stowe, John (1525?- 
1605), author of a Sin-vey of London, a description of the city in the 
16th century. 5, Billingsgate was the region of the London fish- 
markets. The stalls were usually in charge of women famous for 
their powers of vituperation; hence Irving's figure of the siren. 



180 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the 
renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, I 
was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had 
been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to 
as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found 
her seated in a little back parlor, the window of which looked 
out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower- 
garden; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep 
of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles: the 
two views which comprised, in all probability, her prospects 
in life and the little world in which she had lived, and 
moved, and had her being,^ for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
from London Stone even unto the Monument,^ was doubt- 
less, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the 
universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of 
true wisdom, and that liberal communicative disposition 
which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, 
knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the 
Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the 
valiant Pistol until the great fire of London, when it was 
unfortunately burned down. It was soon rebuilt, and con- 
tinued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying 
landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad mea- 
sures, and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinful 
race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with heaven 
by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked 

1. lived, and moved, and had her being. Adapted from Acts xvii, 28. 
2. the Monument, built to commemorate the great London fire of 1666. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 181 

Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain. For some time 
the vestry meetings were regularly held there; but it was 
observed that the old Boar never held up his head under 
church government. He gradually declined, and finally gave 
his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
turned into shops; but she informed me that a picture of it 
was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just 
in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my deter- 
mination; so, having inforrned myself of the abode of the 
sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of East- 
cheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion 
of her legendary lore, and furnished an important incident 
in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to 
explore Crooked Lane and diverse little alleys and elbows 
and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated 
like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. 
At length I traced him to a corner of a small court sur- 
rounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about 
as much of the face of heaven as a community of frogs at 
the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bow- 
ing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, 
and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a small 
pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to 
make in the company of high churchwardens, and other 
mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the 
deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels,^ discours- 
ing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the 
affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale — for the lower 

1. like Milton's angels. In Paradise Lost, Book ii, 11. 557-569. 



182 THE SKETCH BOOK 

classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter 
without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their under- 
standings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished 
their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the 
church to put it in order ; so having made known my wishes, j 
I received their gracious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a 
short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs 
of many fishmongers of renown; and as every profession has 
its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I pre- 
sume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden j 
time is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding gen- 
erations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb 
of Virgil,^ or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough^ or 
Turenne.^ 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains 
also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth,'* 

1. Virgil was buried at Naples where his tomb was long a place of 
pious resort. 2. Marlborough, the Duke of Marlborough (1650-1722), 
the victor of Blenheim, was one of England's greatest generals. 3. 
Turenne (1611-1675) was a French general. 4. William Walworth. 
The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this 
worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here. 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent. 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
And gave him armes, as here you see. 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
TMrteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the vener- 
able Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 183 

Knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
Tyler/ in Smithfield; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as 
almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of 
arms — the sovereigns of Cockney^ being generally renowned 
as the most pacific of all potentates. 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately 
under the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, 
stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at 
the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty 
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus 
quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was 
clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little sexton 
drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and informed me 
in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, 
when the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging 
about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that 
the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the 
dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of 
honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of "waiter" 
from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in 
the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was 
singing a stave from the "mirre^ garland of Captain Death"; 

vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William 
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and 
not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt 
by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal 
leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; 
the second was John, or Jack Straw," etc., etc. — StoAve's London. 
[Author's Note.] 1. Wat Tyler and Jack Straw were leaders in the 
Peasant's Revolt in London in 1381. King Richard II appeared before 
the revolutionists, and Wat Tyler, threatening the King, was killed 
by Walworth, the mayor of London. 2. Cockney is usually used 
as a nickname for "Londoner." The city itself is sometimes called 
Cockayne. 3. mirre, myrrh. 



184 THE SKETCH BOOK 

to the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the 
conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous 
Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the 
truth afterwards, except in the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered that I do not pledge myself 
for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known 
that the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis 
are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and everyone 
must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition 
that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened 
so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have 
been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, w^ho 
attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally 
prompt with his "Anon, anon, sir";^ and to have transcended 
his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose 
taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis 
of putting lime in his sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph^ 
lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of 
his wine, and the fairness of his measure. The worthy dig- 
nitaries of the church, however, did not appear much capti- 

1. Anon, anon, sir. See Henry IV, Part 1, ii, iv. 2. Preston's 
epitaph. As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe 
it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the 
production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one soSer son, and here he lies. 
Though reared among full hogsheads, he defyed 
The charms of wine, and everyone beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 

[Author's Note.] 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 185 

vated by the sober virtues of the tapster; the deputy organist, 
who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd 
remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among 
full hogsheads; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion 
by a significant wink and a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on 
the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet 
disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture 
of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be 
found in the church of St. Michael. "Marry and amen!" 
said I, "here endeth my research!" So I was giving the 
matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend 
the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in everything rel- 
ative to the old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels 
of the vestry, which had been handed down from remote 
times when the parish meetings were held at the Boar's 
Head. These were deposited in the parish club room, which 
had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient estab- 
lishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 
Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is 
kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock".^ of the 
establishment. It is one of those little taverns which abound 
in the heart of the city, and form the center of gossip and 
intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the barroom, 
which was narrow and darkling ; for in these close lanes but 
few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down to 
the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable 

1. bully-rock. The word is a common one in Elizabethan English 
and means the same as "bully," "a bold dashing fellow," "a swash- 
buckler" — a different sense from that which the word "bully" now has. 
See the use on page 335. Shakespeare's form of the word is "bully- 
rook." 



186 THE SKETCH BOOK 

twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each con- 
taining a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for 
dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old 
stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one 
o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, 
before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright 
brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the 
mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. 
There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, 
parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and 
pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything 
had that look of order and neatness which bespeaks the 
superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group 
of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen 
or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As 
I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered 
into a little misshapen backroom, having at least nine cor- 
ners. It was lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated 
leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat 
pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, 
and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oilcloth 
hat, seated in one corner meditating on a half-empty pot of 
porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an 
air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. 
Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, 
and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame 
Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to 
oblige; and hurrying upstairs to the archives of her house, 
where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, 
she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in her 
hands. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 187 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco 
box, of gigantic size, out of which,' I was told, the vestry had 
smoked at their stated meetings since time immemorial ; and 
which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or 
used on common occasions. I received it with becoming 
reverence; but what was my delight, at beholding on its cover 
the identical painting of which I was in quest! There was 
displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before 
the door was to be seen the whole convivial group at table, in 
full revel; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force 
with which the portraits of renowned generals and commo- 
dores are illustrated on tobacco boxes, for the benefit of pos- 
terity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the 
cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince 
Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly ob- 
literated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard 
Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head 
Tavern, and that it was "repaired and beautified by his suc- 
cessor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful descrip- 
tion of this august and venerable relic; and I question 
whether the learned Scriblerius^ contemplated his Roman 
shield, or the Knights of the Round Table^ the long-sought 
Sangraal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame 
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, 

1. Scriblerius. The literary satire, The Memoirs of Martinus Scrih- 
lerius, published in 1741, was written by John Arbuthnot, Pope, Swift, 
and others. The mock heroic description of the shield, in Chapter III, 
is imitative of similar serious descriptions in classic poetry. See page 
190, note on Achilles. 2. Knights of the Round Table were the followers 
of King Arthur in medieval romance. They went in search of the San- 
graal, or holy cup in which the Savior's blood was caught at the cruci- 
fixion, the tradition being that the cup was visible only to the pure. 



188 THE SKETCH BOOK 

put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also be- 
longed to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's 
Head. It bore the inscription of having been the gift of 
Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, in ex- 
ceeding great value, being considered very "antyke." This 
last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman in 
the red nose and oilcloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected 
of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He 
suddenly roused from his meditation on the pot of porter, 
and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Aye, 
aye! the head don't ache now that made that there article!" 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me, but 
there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as anti- 
quarian research; for I immediately perceived that this could 
be no other than the identical ''parcel-gilt goblet"^ on which 
Falstaff made his loving but faithless vow to Dame Quickly; 
and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among 
the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn 
contract. 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the gob- 
let had been handed down from generation to generation. 
She also entertained me with many particulars concerning 
the worthy vestrymen who have seated themselves thus 
quietly on the stools of the ancient roisterers of Eastcheap, 
and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in 
honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my 

1. parcel-gilt goblet. "Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt 
goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea- 
coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy 
head for likening his father to a singing man of Windsor; thou didst 
swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and 
make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it?" — Henry IV, Part 
2, II, i, 93. [Author's Note.] 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 189 

readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. 
Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, 
believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and 
reveled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes 
concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of 
The Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down 
from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair- 
dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, 
has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the 
books, with which he makes his customers ready to die of 
laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some fur- 
ther inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. 
His head had declined a little on one side; a deep sigh heaved 
from the very bottom of his stomach; and, though I could 
not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evi- 
dently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the 
direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and 
found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roast- 
ing in dripping richness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recondite 
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. 
My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand 
a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with 
a hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the 
Parish Club of Crooked Lane — not forgetting my shabby, 
but sententious friend, in the oilcloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief "^ account of this inter- 
esting research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatis- 
factory, I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of 
literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am 

1. tedious brief. From A Midsummer NighVs Dream, v, i, 56. 



190 THE SKETCH BOOK 

aware that a more skillful illustrator of the immortal bard 
would have swelled the materials I have touched upon, to a 
good merchantable bulk; comprising the biographies of 
William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston; some 
notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's; the his- 
tory of Eastcheap, great and little; private anecdotes of 
Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daughter, whom I have not 
even mentioned; to say nothing of a damsel tending the 
breast of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a 
comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle) — the whole enliv- 
ened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great 
fire of London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future 
commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco box, 
and the ^'parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to 
light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruit- 
ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of 
Achilles,^ or the far-famed Portland vase.^ 

1. Achilles in Homer's Iliad is provided by Hephaestus or Vulcan 
with a shield of wonderful workmanship. 2. The Portland vase, 
formerly owned by the Portland family, is now in the British Museum. 
It is an urn of blue transparent glass, ten inches high, and was dis- 
covered in a tomb at Rome in 1630. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to naught. 

I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

— DrUMMONdI of HAWTHORNDElSr. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which 
we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some 
quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build 
our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering 
about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying 
that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify 
with the name of reflection, when suddenly an interruption 
of madcap boys from Westminster School,^ playing at foot- 
ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making 
the vaulted passages and moldering tombs echo with their 
merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by 
penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and 
applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. 
He conducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling 
sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy pas- 
sage leading to the chapter house and the chamber in which 

1. Drummond, William (1585-1649), Scottish poet. 2. Westmin- 
ster School, one of the oldest of English public schools, was founded 
in the reign of Henry VIII. The school building adjoins the Abbey. 

191 



192 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Doomsday Book^ is deposited. Just within the passage is a 
small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key; it 
was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if 
seldom used. We now ascended a dark, narrow staircase, 
and, passing through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported 
by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted 
by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from 
the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the 
cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of 
the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the 
hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved 
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical 
writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the 
center of the library was a solitary table with two or three 
books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched 
by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and 
profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive 
walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. 
I could only hear now and then the shouts of the schoolboys 
faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell 
tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of the 
abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and 
fainter, and at length died away; the bell ceased .to toll, and 
a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 

1. Doomsday Book is a descriptio or survey of England, made at the 
request of William the Conqueror, about the year 1085. The owner- 
ship of all lands in England is recorded, and the book was called Dooms- 
day (i. e., Judgment day) because its statements were as final as the 
judgments of the last day will be. It was formerly kept at Westminster 
but is now preserved beneath a glass case in the Public Record Office in 
London. It is perhaps the most important single document bearing on 
English political history in existence. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 193 

parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table 
in a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, however, I 
was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of 
the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon 
the old volumes in their moldering covers, thus ranged on 
the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, 
I could not but consider the library a kind of literary cata- 
comb, where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed, 
and left to blacken and molder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head! 
how many weary days! how many sleepless nights! How 
have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells 
and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and 
the still more blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves 
to painful research and intense reflection! And all for what? 
To occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the title of their 
works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy 
churchman or casual straggler like myself; and in another 
age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of 
this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local 
sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among 
these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering tran- 
siently in echo — and then passing away like a thing that was 
not. 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un- 
profitable speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I 
was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until 
I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, to my utter aston- 
ishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one 
awaking from a deep sleep, then a husky hem, and at 
length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and 



194 THE SKETCH BOOK 

broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some stu- 
dious spider had woven across it; and having probably con- 
tracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of 
the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more dis- 
tinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent, conversable 
little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and 
obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in the present day, 
would be deemed barbarous; but I shall endeavor, as far I 
am able, to render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other 
such commonplace topics of literary repining, and com- 
plained bitterly that it had not been opened for more than 
two centuries; that the dean only looked now and then into 
the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled 
with them for a few moments, and then returned them to 
their shelves. "What a plague do they mean," said the little 
quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, 
"what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand 
volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old 
vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be 
looked at now and then by the dean? Books were written 
to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule 
passed that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least 
once a year; or if he" is not equal to the task, let thern 
once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster 
among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an 
airing." 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware 
how much better you are off than most books of your genera- 
tion. By being stored away in this ancient library, you are 
like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 195- 

which lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels; while the 
remains of your contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary 
course of nature, have long since returned to dust." 

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking 
big, "I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms 
of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, 
like other great contemporary works; but here have I been 
clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have 
silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the 
very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by chance 
given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before 
I go to pieces." 

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have 
been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are 
now well stricken in years. Very few of your contemporaries 
can be at present in existence; and those few owe their 
longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries; 
which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you 
might more properly and gratefully have compared to those 
infirmaries attached to religious establishments, for the 
benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering 
and no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good- 
for-nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if 
in circulation — where do we meet with their works? What do 
we hear of Robert Groteste,^ of Lincoln? No one could have 
toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have, 
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name; but, alas! the 
pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are 

1. Robert Groteste, bishop of Lincoln, died in 1253. Irving gives 
an incorrect form of the name (Grosseteste). 



196 THE SKETCH BOOK 

scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely dis- 
turbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of 
Giraldus Cambrensis/ the historian, antiquary, philosopher, 
theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he 
might shut himself up and write for posterity; but posterity 
never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Hunting- 
don,2 who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a 
treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has 
revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of 
Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? 
Of his three great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting 
a mere fragment; the others are known only to a few of the 
curious in literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, 
they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of 
John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the 
tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury; of Simeon of Dur- 
ham; of Benedict of Peterborough; of John Hanvill of 

St. Albans; of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how 
old do you think me? You are talking of authors that lived 
long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French,^ so 
that they in a manner expatriated themselves and deserved 
to be forgotten; but I, sir, was ushered into the world from 

1. Giraldus Cambrensis, a Welsh scholar and ecclesiastic, died 
about 1220. To the antiquarian his writings are of very great interest. 
2. What of Henry of Huntingdon, etc. The names which Irving 
mentions are those of writers of Latin histories of England, or of parts 
,of England, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They are not as 
completely neglected now as they were in Irving's day. Most of them 
have been carefully edited and published at the expense of the British 
government, and these volumes are an invaluable source of information 
to the student of history. 3. Latin or French. "In Latin and French 
hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endite, and have many 
noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their 
poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a 
fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Engli^she.'" — Chaucefs 
Testament of Love. [Author's Note.] 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 197 

the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written 
in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had 
become fixed; and indeed I was considered a model of pure 
and elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite diffi- 
culty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

"I cry your mercy/'^ said I, "for mistaking your age; but 
it matters little; almost all the writers of your time have like- 
wise passed into f orgetf ulness ; and De Worde's publications 
are mere literary rarities among book collectors. The purity 
and stability of language, too, on which you found your 
claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of 
authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy 
Robert of Gloucester,^ who wrote his history in rimes of 
mongrel Saxon.^ Even now many talk of Spenser's Veil of 
pure English undefiled,'* as if the language ever sprang from 
a well or fountainhead, and was not rather a mere confluence 
of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and inter- 

1' I cry your mercy. The usual phrasing is "I cry you mercy." 
"To cry one mercy" should mean "to thank one," not "to beg mercy 
or pardon of one." Cf. As you Like It, iii, v, 61: "Cry the man mercy." 
The idiom is borrowed from the French. In the course of time the 
original value of the phrase came to be obscured and it was used, as 
here by Irving, in the sense of "to beg mercy or pardon." 2. Robert 
of Gloucester. The metrical Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester was 
written about the year 1300. It was written in the language of the 
period, which was no more "mongrel Saxon" than was the language 
of Chaucer in his period. 3. mongrel Saxon. Holinshed, in his 
Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by dcligent travell of Geffry 
Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and 
after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our 
said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it 
never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Eliza- 
beth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie 
learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the 
same, to their great praise and immortal commendation." [Author's 
Note.] 4. well of pure English undefiled. See note 1, page 131. 



198 THE SKETCH BOOK 

mixtures. It is this which has made English literature so 
extremely mutable, and the reputation huilt upon it so 
fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something 
more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, 
even thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall 
into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity 
and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the 
language in which he has embarked his fame gradually alter- 
ing, and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice 
of fashion. He looks back and beholds the early authors of 
his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by 
modern writers. A few short ages have covered them with 
obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint 
taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be 
the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired 
in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the course 
of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; until it shall become 
almost as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian 
obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions^ said to exist in 
the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some emo- 
tion, "when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new 
works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel 
disposed to sit down and weep; like the good Xerxes,^ when 
he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of 
military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not 
one of them would be in existence!" 

1, Runic inscriptions .... deserts of Tartary. Irving probably 
has in mind here the cuneiform inscriptions of various Asiatic peoples. 
The runes were the alphabet of the Teutonic peoples of northern Europe. 
Not much was known about them in Irving's day, but to speak of 
"Runic inscriptions in the deserts of Tartary" is a blunder which was 
ridiculous even then. 2. Xerxes, king of Persia, was born about 519 
B.C. and was assassinated about 465 B.C. 



'"HE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 199 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how 
it is; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good 
old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir 
Philip Sydney's Arcadia,^ Sackville's^ stately plays, and 
Mirror for Magistrates,^ or the fine-spun euphuisms of the 
unparalleled John Lyly."^ 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so 
when you were last in circulation, have long since had their 
day. Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the immortality of which 
was so fondly predicted by his admirers,^ and which, in 
truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful 
turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville 
has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writ- 
ings were once the delight of a court, and apparently per- 
petuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. 
A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the 
time, have likewise gone down, with all their writings and 
their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding litera- 
ture has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that 
it is only now and then that some industrious diver after 
fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the grati- 
fication of the curious. 

1. Sydney's Arcadia. See note 2, page 135. 2. Sackville, Thomas 
(1536-1608) was author of Gorboduc, the first English tragedy. 3. 
The Mirror for Magistrates, by various hands, is a long, didactic poem 
of the 16th century. 4. the unparalleled John Lyly. See note 1, page 
47. 5. his admirers. ""Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of 
his gentle witt, and the golden-pillar of his noble courage; and ever, 
notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, 
the breath of the Muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of 
witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme 
of Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite 
of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print." — Harvey 
Pierce's Supererogation. [Author's Note.] 



200 THE SKETCH BOOK 

"For my part/' I continued, "I consider this mutability of 
language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of 
the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason 
from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes 
of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for 
a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their 
successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature 
would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would 
groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface 
become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of 
genius and learning decline, and make way for subsequent 
productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade 
away the writings of authors who have flourished their allot- 
ted time; otherwise, the creative powers of genius would 
overstock the world, and the mind would be completely be- 
wildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there 
were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works 
had to be transcribed by hand, which w^as a slow and labo- 
rious operation; they were written either on parchment, 
which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to 
make way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and 
extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and un- 
profitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and 
solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manu- 
scripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to 
monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some mea- 
sure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the 
intellect of antiquity; that the fountains of thought have not 
been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. 
But the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to 
all these restraints. They have made everyone a writer, and 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 201 

enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself 
over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are 
alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a tor- 
rent — augmented into a river — expanded into a sea. A few 
centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted 
a great library; but what would you say to libraries such as 
actually exist, containing three or four hundred thousand 
volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy; and the 
press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double 
and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mor- 
tality should break out among the progeny of the Muse, now 
that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I 
fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. 
Criticism may do much. It increases with the increase of 
literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on 
population spoken of by economists. All possible encourage- 
ment, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good 
or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let criticism do what 
it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world 
will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon 
be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. 
Many a man of passable information, at the present day, 
reads scarcely anything but reviews; and before long a man 
of erudition will be little better than a mere walking cata- 
logue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I per- 
ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate 
of an author who was making some noise just as I left the 
world. His reputation, however, was considered quite tem- 
porary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was 



202 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and 
nothing of Greek,^ and had been obliged to run the country 
for deer stealing. I think his name was Shakespeare. I 
presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man 
that the literature of his period has experienced a duration 
beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise 
authors now and then who seem proof against the mutability 
of language, because they have rooted themselves in the un- 
changing principles of human nature. They are like gigantic 
trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream ; which, 
by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere 
surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the 
ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, 
and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the 
case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying the en- 
croachments of time, retaining in modern use the language 
and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an 
indifferent author, merely from having flourished in his 
vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming 
the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion 
of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, 
almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that 
had well-nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpu- 
lency. "Mighty well! " cried he, as soon as he could recover 
breath, "mighty well! And so you would persuade me 
that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vaga- 

1. little of Latin and nothing of Greek, a version of Ben Jonson's 
remark that Shakespeare had "small Latin and less Greek." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 203 

bond deer-stealer — by a man without learning; by a poet, 
forsooth — a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit 
of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour- 
ished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, 
not to give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers he 
has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from 
the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will 
always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of 
nature, whose features are always the same and always inter- 
esting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their 
pages are crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts 
expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every- 
thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by 
everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He 
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing 
before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the 
wealth of the language — its family jewels, which are thus 
transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting 
may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then 
to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy 
and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a 
look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast 
valleys of dullness, filled with monkish legends and academ- 
ical controversies! What bogs of theological speculations! 
What dreary w^astes of metaphysics! Here and there only do 
we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like bea- 



204 THE SKETCH BOOK 

cons on their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure 
light of poetical intelligence from age to age."^ 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused 
me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform 
me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a 
parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was 
silent; the clasps were closed; and it looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two 
or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into 
further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this ram- 
bling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never 
to this moment been able to discover. 

1. to age. Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe: 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

— Churchyard^ [Author's Note.] 

2. Thomas Churchyard (1520?-1604) was an English poet and miscel- 
laneous writer. 



RURAL FUNERALS^ 

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more. 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night; 
Are strewings fitt'st for graves — 
You were as flowers now withered; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

— Cymbeline.2 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural 
life which still linger in some parts of England, are those of 
strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at 
the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the 
remains of some of the rites of the primitive church; but 
they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed 
among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned 
by their writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes 
of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked 
itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monu- 
ment. They are now only to be met with in the most distant 
and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and inno- 
vation have not been able to throng in and trample out all 
the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one 
of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia:^ 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded all wdth sweet flowers; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

1, Rural Funerals. Note the abundance of quotations in this essay. 
Does any one of the descriptions of Irving's "Art of Bookmaking" 
describe the manner of composition of this essay? 2. Cymbeline. IV. 
ii, 283-287. 3. ditties of Ophelia, in Hamlet, iv, v, 35 ff. 

205 



206 THE SKETCH BOOK 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in 
some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a 
female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of 
white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl near- 
est in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up 
in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. 
These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imita- 
tion of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white 
gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity of the 
deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in 
heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to 
the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns; a kind of 
triumph, "to show," says Bourne,^ "that they have finished 
their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I 
am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, 
particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing 
though melancholy effect to hear, of a still evening in some 
lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge 
swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving 
along the landscape. 

Thus,2 thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodil 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveler to the 
passing funeral in these sequestered places; for such spec- 

1. Bourne, Victor (1695-1747), an English writer of Latin verse 
2. Thus, etc., From " Dirge of Jephtha's Daughter," in Noble Numbers 
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674), an English lyric writer. 



RURAL FUNERALS 207 

tacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep 
into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, 
uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows silently in the 
rear, sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a few 
hundred yards, and, having paid this tribute of respect to 
the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the Eng- 
lish character, and gives it some of its most touching and 
ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic cus- 
toms, and in the solicitude shown by the common people for 
an honored and peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, 
whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that 
some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas 
Overbury,^ describing the "faire and happy milkmaid," ob- 
serves, "thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die 
in the springtime, to have store of ilowers stucke upon her 
winding sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feel- 
ing of a nation, continually advert to this fond 'solicitude 
about the grave. In The Maid's Tragedy, by Beaumont 
and Fletcher,- there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 
describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted 
girl: 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent; osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the 
turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens 

1. Sir Thomas Overbury (1581-16L3). His Characters, short essays 
descriptive of different classes of people, appeared in 1614. 2. Beau- 
mont and Fletcher. See note 3, page 136. 



208 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and flowers. "We adorn their graves," says Evelyn,^ in his 
Sylva, "with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of 
the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scrip- 
tures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in 
dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has now become 
extremely rare in England; but it may still be met with in 
the churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh moun- 
tains; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of 
Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of 
Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was present 
at the funeral of a 3^oung girl in Glamorganshire, that the 
female attendants had their aprons fuH of flowers, which, as 
soon as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 
same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the 
ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might 
be seen in various states of decay; some drooping, others 
quite perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by 
holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves 
had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tomb- 
stones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the 
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in 
it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the 
lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. "This 
sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne on a branch set with 
thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hiero- 
glyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory 
life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet with- 
out its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the 

1. Evelyn, John (1620-1706), published his Sylva in 1664. He is 
better known as the writer of an important diary. 



RURAL FUNERALS 209 

flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had 
often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the 
deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. 
In an old poem, entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover 
specifies the decorations he intends to use: 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good-will. 
And sundry-colored ribbons 

On it I will bestow; 
But chiefly black and yellow 

With her to grave shall go. 
I'll deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen; 
And with my tears as showers, 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a 
virgin; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of 
her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons were 
intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red 
rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had 
been remarkable for benevolence; but roses in general were 
appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that 
the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his 
dwelling in the county of Surrey, "where the maidens yearly 
planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts 
with rosebushes." And Camden^ likewise remarks, in his 
Britannia: "Here is also a certain custom, observed time 
out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially 
by the young men and maids who have lost their loves; so 
that this churchyard is now full of them." 

1. Camden, William (1551-1623), an English antiquary, published 
his Britannia, a description of England, in 1586. 



210 THE SKETCH BOOK 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, em- 
blems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the 
yew and cypress; and if flowers were strewn, they were of 
the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas 
Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza: 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In The Maid's Tragedy, a pathetic little air is introduced, 
illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females 
who had been disappointed in love: 

Lay a garland on my hearse. 

Of the dismal yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth; 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of 
sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which per- 
vaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was 
an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented ever- 
greens and flowers should be employed. The intention seems 
to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the 
mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, 
and to associate the memory of the deceased tvith the most 



RURAL FUNERALS 211 

delicate and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal 
process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kin- 
dred dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplat- 
ing; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved with 
those refined associations which it awakened when blooming 
before us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," says 
Laertes,^ of his virgin sister. 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 

Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a 
manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise: 

May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 



May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
British poets who wrote when these rites were more prev- 
alent and delighted frequently to allude to them; but I have 
already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot however 
refrain from giving a passage from Shakespeare, even though 
it should appear trite, which illustrates the emblematical 
meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes; and at the 

1. Laertes' speech is found in Hamlet, v, i. 262 ff. 



212 THE SKETCH BOOK 

same time possesses that magic of language and apposite- 
ness of imagery for which he stands preeminent. 

With fairest flowers,^ 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most 
costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while 
the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection 
is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under 
the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold 
conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant 
and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists 
only in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it 
seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of culti- 
vated society. In proportion as people grow polite they 
cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have 
learned to check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying 
emotions, and to supply its most affecting and picturesque 
usages by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few 
pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English 
funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade; 
mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and 
hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. "There is 
a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor ,2 "and a solemn mourn- 

1. With fairest flowers, etc. From Cyynbeline, iv, ii, 218-224, by 
William Collins (1727-1759). 2. Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667) was a 
celebrated English preacher, bishop, and theological writer. 



RURAL FUNERALS 213 

ing, and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the daies 
are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no 
more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon 
forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates and new 
pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes 
and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. 
But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The 
stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and 
is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. 
The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals with its 
pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the 
landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also per- 
petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 
enjoyed them; who was the companion of our most retired 
walks and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is 
associated with every charm of nature; we hear his voice in 
the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts 
the grove which he once frequented; we think of him in the 
wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the 
valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we remember his 
beaming smiles and bounding gayety; and when sober eve- 
ning returns with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, 
we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and 
sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place^ shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed; 
Beloved, till life can charm no more; 

And mourned till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately 

1. Each lonely place, etc. From "Dirge", in Cymbeline. 



214 THE SKETCH BOOK 

in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to 
prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by 
the exercises of devotion; they linger about it on the Sab- 
bath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares and 
most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and pres- 
ent loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of 
the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray 
over the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays 
after the interment; and where the tender rite of strewing 
and planting flowers is still practiced, it is always renewed on 
Easter, Whitsuntide,^ and other festivals, when the season 
brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to 
mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest rel- 
atives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed; 
and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an 
insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as 
it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. 
The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the 
divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the 
instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter 
must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence 
of its object; but the love that is seated in the soul can live 
on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense 
languish and decline with the charms which excited them, 
and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts 
of the tomb; but it is thence that truly spiritual affec- 
tion rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, 
like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the 
survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we 
refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — 

1. Whitsuntide, the eighth week after Easter. 



RURAL FUNERALS 215 

every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider 
it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood 
over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly 
forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, 
though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that 
would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to 
remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of 
agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, 
even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he 
most loved — when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in 
the closing of its portal — would accept of consolation that 
must be bought by forgetfulness? No, the love which sur- 
vives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. 
If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the 
overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of 
recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is 
softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in 
the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow 
from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing 
cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper 
sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it 
even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No, 
there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a 
remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the 
charms of the living. Oh, the grave! — the grave! — It buries 
every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resent- 
ment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets 
and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave, 
even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that 
he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth 
that lies moldering before him. 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi- 



216 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- 
ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily inter- 
course of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the ten- 
derness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. 
The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless 
attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testi- 
monies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — 
oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand! The faint, fal- 
tering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance 
of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned 
upon us even from the threshold of existence! 

Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
unrequited — every past endearment unregarded, of that de- 
parted being, who can never — never — never return to be 
soothed by thy contrition! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the 
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate par- 
ent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond 
bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to 
doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art 
a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, 
the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art jel 
lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true 
heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be 
sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every 
ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, 
and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure that thou 
wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and 
utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more 
deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave the chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties 



RURAL FUNERALS 217 

of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou 
canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but 
take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction 
over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec- 
tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 

In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to 
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations 
illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of 
note, to another paper, which has been withheld. The arti- 
cle swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is men- 
tioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these 
usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investi- 
gated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- 
tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun- 
tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more 
general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable; 
but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into 
affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of 
monuments of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, 
with seats placed among bowers of greenhouse plants; and 
that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers 
of the season. He gives a casual picture of filial piety which 
I cannot but transcribe; for I trust it is as useful as it is 
delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. "When 
I was at Berlin," says he, 'T followed the celebrated Iffland^ 
to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace 
much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my atten- 
,tion was attracted by a young woman, who stood on a mound 

1. Iffland, August William (1759-1814), was a noted German actor 
and writer of plays. 



218 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously pro- 
tected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tomb 
of her parent; and the figure of this affectionate daughter 
presented a monument more striking than the most costly 
work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that 
I once met with amiong the mountains of Switzerland. It was 
at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the 
Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the 
capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and 
the Lake, and accessible on the land side only by footpaths. 
The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred 
fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out 
as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its 
territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the 
rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a 
purer age. It had a small church, with a burying ground ad- 
joining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of 
wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely exe- 
cuted, but evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. 
On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, 
others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with inter- 
est at this scene; I felt that I was at the source of poetical 
description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offer- 
ings of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer 
and m.ore populous place, I should have suspected them to 
have been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from 
books; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books; 
there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village; and I 
question whether any peasant of the place dreamed, while he 
was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that 
he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical 
devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN 

Shall I not takei mine ease in mine inn? 

— Falstaff. 

During a journey that I once made through the Nether- 
lands, I arrived one evening at the Pomme d' Or,^ the princi- 
pal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of 
the table d'hdte,^ so that I was obliged to make a solitary 
supper from the relics of its ampler board. The weather was 
chilly; I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining 
room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect before 
me of a long, dull evening, without any visible means of en- 
livening it. I summoned mine host, and requested something 
to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his house- 
hold, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, 
and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over 
one of the latter, reading old and stale criticisms, my ear was 
now and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to 
proceed from the kitchen. Everyone that has traveled on the 
Continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a 
country inn is to the middle and inferior order of travelers; 
particularly in that equivocal kind of weather when a fire 
becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the news- 
paper and explored my way to the kichen, to take a peep at 
the group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed 
partly of travelers who had arrived some hours before in a 
diligence,* and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on 

1. Shall I not take, etc. From Henry IV, Part 1, iii, iii, 93. 2 
Pomme d' Or, The Golden Apple. 3. table d'hote, the regular, daily 
dinner of the hotel. 4. diligence, a public coach. 

219 



220 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of inns. They were seated round a great burnished stove, 
that might have been mistaken for an altar at which they 
were worshiping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels 
of resplendent brightness; among which steamed and hissed 
a huge copper teakettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass 
of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in 
strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spa- 
cious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners; except 
where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a 
flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured 
utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strap- 
ping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears and 
a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the pre- 
siding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most 
of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their 
mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy 
Frenchman, with a dry, weazen face and large whiskers, was 
giving of his love adventures; at the end of each of which 
there was one of those bursts of honest, unceremonious 
laughter in which a man indulges in that temple of true 
liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened 
to a variety of traveler's tales, some very extravagant, and 
most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my 
treacherous memory except one, which I will endeavor to 
relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the 
manner in which it was told and the peculiar air and appear- 
ance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had 
the look of a veteran traveler. He was dressed in a tarnished 
^reen traveling jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and 



THE INN KITCHEN 221 

a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. 
He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, 
aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was 
light, and curled from under an old green velvet traveling-cap 
stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than 
once by the arrival of guests or the remarks of his auditors, 
and paused now and then to replenish his pipe; at which 
times he had generally a roguish leer,^ and a sly joke for the 
buxom kitchen maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a 
huge armchair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curi- 
ously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer^ 
decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked 
on one side, and the whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as 
he related the following story. 

1. leer. The word does not here necessarily have an evil sense. 
Its original meaning was merely "countenance." 2. ecume de mer, a 
French phrase meaning literally "foam of the sea." The German form 
of the word, meerschaum, is more commonly used. 



1 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 

A TRAVELER'S TALEi 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led — 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

— Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a 
wild and romantic tract of upper Germany that lies not far' 
from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, , 
many, many years since, the castle of the Baron Von Land- 
short.^ It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried \ 
among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, itsi 
old watchtower may still be seen, struggling, like the former] 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look^ 
down upon the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch^ of the great family of Kat- 
zenellenbogen,^ and inherited the relics of the property and 
all the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition i 
of his predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, 
yet the baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former 
state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, , 

1. Tale. The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, 
will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old 
Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken 
place at Paris. [Author's Note.] 2. Baron Von Landshort. The 
smallness of the kingdoms of German princes before the formation of 
the Empire was proverbial. 3. a dry branch. As he had but one 
child and that a daughter, the direct line of the Baron's family would 
end with him. 4. Katzenellenbogen, i.e., Cat's-Elbow, the name of 
a family of those parts very powerful in former times. The ap- 
pellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame 
of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. [Author's Note.] 

222 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 223 

in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, 
perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built 
more convenient residences in the valleys; still the baron 
remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, 
with hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that 
he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on 
account of disputes that had happened between their great- 
great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, when 
she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a 
prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All 
the nurses, gossips, and country cousins assured her father 
that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany; and 
who should know better than they? She had, moreover, been 
brought up with great care under the superintendence of two 
maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life 
at one of the little German courts, and w^ere skilled in all the 
branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine 
lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle of 
accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could 
embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories 
of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression 
in their countenances that they looked like so many souls in 
purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had 
spelled her way through several church legends and almost 
all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch} She had even 
made considerable proficiency in writing ; could sign her own 
name without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts 
could read it without spectacles. She excelled in making 

1. Heldenbuch, literally "Book of Heroes." It is an early printed 
book of the end of the 15th century, in German, giving the story of 
the deeds of certain German epic heroes. 



224 THE SKETCH BOOK 

little, elegant, good-for-nothing, ladylike knicknacks of all 
kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; 
playeij a number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all 
the tender ballads of the minnelieders^ by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in 
their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant 
guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for 
there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decor- 
ous as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out 
of their sight ; never went beyond the domains of the castle, 
unless well attended, or rather well watched ; had continual 
lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obe- 
dience; and, as to the men — pah! — she was taught to hold 
them at such a distance, and in such absolute distrust, that, 
unless properly authorized, she would not have cast a glance 
upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if he 
were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the 
world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every 
hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely woman- 
hood under the protection of those immaculate spinsters, 
like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her 
aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted 
that though all the other young ladies in the world might go 
astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen 
to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 

1. "minnelieder" are love-songs, the poems of the German minne- 
singers of the thirteenth century. Irving mistakenly supposes "niinne- 
lieder" to be equivalent to "minnesinger." 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 225 

be provided with children, his household was by no means a 
small one; for Providence had enriched him with abundance 
of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the affec- 
tionate disposition common to humble relatives; were won- 
derfully attached to the baron, and took every possible 
occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All 
family festivals were commemorated by these good people 
at the baron's expense; and when they were filled with good 
cheer they would declare that there was nothing on earth so 
delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the 
heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell 
long stories about the dark old warriors whose portraits 
looked grimly down from the walls around, and he found no 
listeners equal to those that fed at his expense. He was much 
given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in all those super- 
natural tales with which every mountain and valley in Ger- 
many abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his 
own; they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes 
and mouths, and never failed to be astonished, even though 
repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von 
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of 
his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the per- 
suasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost im- 
portance: it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the 
baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between 
the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite the dig- 
nity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The 



226 THE SKETCH BOOK 

preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio.^ 
The young people were betrothed without seeing each other ; 
and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The 
young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army 
for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the baron's to 
receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him, 
from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, men- 
tioning the day and hour when he might be expected to 
arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with 
uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her 
toilet, and quarreled the whole morning about every article 
of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their 
contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately 
it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bride- 
groom could desire ; and the flutter of expectation heightened 
the luster of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, 
all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little 
heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her; 
for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of 
this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel 
how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to 
receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in 
truth, nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, 
bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all the 
world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the 

1. punctilio, not a normal use of the word. We speak of "punc- 
tiliousness," but of "a punctilio." 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 227 

castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he continually called the 
servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent ; and 
buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and im- 
portunate as a bluebottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed; the for- 
ests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen 
was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up 
whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein;^ and even the 
great Heidelberg tun^ had been laid under contribution. 
Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
Saus und Braus^ in the true spirit of German hospitality — 
but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled 
after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays 
upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along 
the summits of the mountains. The baron mounted the high- 
est tower and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant 
sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he 
beheld them; the sound of horns came floating from the val- 
ley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number of horse- 
men were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road; 
but when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, 
they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last ray 
of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in the twi- 
light — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; and 
nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant 
lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenwald. 

1. Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein, Rhenish wine and foreign, or im- 
ported, wine. 2. great Heidelberg tun, a huge cask, built in 1751, in 
the cellar of the ancient Schloss or castle at Heidelberg. 3. Saus und 
Braus, a German phrase meaning, "feasting and revelry." 



22?> THE SKETCH BOOK 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing 
his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels 
toward matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble 
and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is 
waiting for him as certainly as a dinner at the end of his 
journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful com- 
panion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on 
the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkenfaust,^ one of the stoutest 
hands, and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was 
now returning from the army. His father's castle was not 
far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an 
hereditary feud rendered the families hostile and strangers 
to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
■friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and 
the count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials 
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose 
charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they 
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and, 
that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtz- 
burg at an early hour, the count having given directions for 
his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their 
military scenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be 
a little tedious now and then about the reputed charms of his 
bride and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and 
thickly-wooded passes. It is well known that the forests: of 

1. Starkenfaust. The name means literally "strong fist, or hand." 
The succeeding phrase translates it. 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 229 

Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as its 
castles by specters; and, at this time, the former were partic- 
ularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers 
wandering about the country. It will not appear extraor- 
dinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a 
gang of these stragglers in the midst of the forest. They 
defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly over- 
powered, when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. 
At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had 
received a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully 
conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar sum- 
moned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his 
skill in administering to both soul and body; but half of his 
skill was superfluous ; the moments of the unfortunate count 
were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal 
cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. 
Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most 
punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that 
his mission should be speedily and courteously executed. 
"Unless this is done," said he, 'T shall not sleep quietly in my 
grave!" He repeated these last words with peculiar solem- 
nity. A request at a moment so impressive admitted no 
hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to sooth him to 
calmness, promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave 
him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed 
it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved 
about his bride — his engagements — his plighted word; 
ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Land- 
short; and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the 
saddle. 



230 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on the 
awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy 
and his head perplexed; for he was to present himself an 
unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their 
festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were 
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far- 
famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up 
from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, 
and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his 
character that made him fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements 
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral 
solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathe- 
dral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives ; and 
the mourning retinue of the count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their 
guest, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy little 
baron, whom we left airing himself on the watchtower. ^ 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which 
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be post- 
poned. The meats were already overdone; the cook in an 
agony; and the whole household had the look of a garrison 
that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged 
reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence 
of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point 
of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the 
gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long 
blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes and 
was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron 
hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 231 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted 
on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a 
beaming romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The 
baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this 
simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, 
and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect 
for the important occasion and the important family with 
which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, 
with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impa- 
tience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than 
his attendants. 

"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compli- 
ments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself 
upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, 
once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he 
bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the 
baron had come to a pause they had reached the inner court 
of the castle; and the stranger was again about to speak, 
when he was once more interrupted by the appearance of the 
female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking and 
blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one 
entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the 
gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden 
aunts whispered something in her ear ; she made an effort to 
speak; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy 
glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again to the 
ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile 
playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was im- 
possible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predis- 



22,2 THE SKETCH BOOK 

posed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so 
gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time 
for parley. The baron was peremptory and deferred all 
particular conversation until the morning, and led the way to 
the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the 
house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had 
gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splin- 
tered justing spears, and tattered banners, were mingled 
with the spoils of silvan warfare; the jaws of the wolf, and 
the tusks of the boar grinned horribly among crossbows and 
battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately 
over the head of the youthful bridegroom. » 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low 
tone that could not be overheard — for the language of love is 
never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot 
catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled 
tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have 
a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and 
went as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she 
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned 
away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic 
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It 
was evident that the young couple were completely enamored. 
The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the 
heart, declared that they had fallen in love with each other 
at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 233 

were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon 
light purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and 
longest stories, and never had he told them so well or with 
such great effect. If there was anything marvelous, his 
auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if anything facetious, 
they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The 
baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to 
utter any joke but a dull one; it was always enforced, how- 
ever, by a bumper of excellent Hockheimer ; and even a dull 
joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irre- 
sistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener 
wits that would not bear repeating, except on similar occa- 
sions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears that 
almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song 
or two roared out by a poor but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron that absolutely made the maiden aunts 
hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a 
most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance 
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced; 
and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed 
only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was 
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest- 
less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. 
His conversations with the bride became more and more 
earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal 
over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run 
through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their 
gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bride- 
groom; their spirits were infected; whispers and glances 
were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious 



234 THE SKETCH BOOK 

shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and 
less frequent; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, 
which were at length succeeded by wild tales and supernat- 
ural legends. One dismal story produced another still more 
dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the ladies 
into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that 
carried away the fair Leonora;^ a dreadful story, which has 
since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed 
by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- 
tion. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as 
the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his 
seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced 
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment 
the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a sol- 
emn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. 
The baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, 
everything was prepared for his reception; a chamber was 
ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteri- 
ously: "I must lay my head in a different chamber to- 
night!" 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which 
it was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him; but 
he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at 
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked 
slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely 

1. Leonora. The story of Leonora is told in Burger's famous ballad 
of that name. The ballad appeared in 1773. Sir Walter Scott translated 
the poem into English. 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 235 

petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her 
eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the 
castle where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and 
snorting with impatience. When they had reached the por- 
tal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset,^ 
the stranger paused and addressed the baron in a hollow 
tone of voice which the vaulted roof rendered still more 
sepulchral. 

"Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you 
the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable 
engagement — " 

"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send someone in your 
place?" 

"It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — I 
must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

"Aye," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until 
tomorrow — tomorrow you shall take your bride there." 

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, 
"my engagement is with no bride — the worms! the worms 
expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers — 
my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — 
the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appointment!" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the 
whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation 
and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, 
others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a 
specter. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the 

1. cresset, a torch or light made by inclosing and igniting com- 
bustible material in an iron frame. 



236 THE SKETCH BOOK 

wild huntsman/ famous in German legend. Some talked of 
mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other super- 
natural beings, with which the good people of Germany have 
been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of 
the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some 
sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very 
gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melan- 
choly a personage. This, however, drew on him the indigna- 
tion of the whole company, and especially of the baron, who 
looked upon him as little better than an infidel, so that he 
was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and 
come into the faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of 
regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young 
count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron 
shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come 
to rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his 
distress. They wandered about the courts or collected in 
groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their 
shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer 
than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, 
by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the 
widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a hus- 
band before she had even embraced him — and such a hus- 
band! If the very specter could be so gracious and noble, 
what must have been the living man. She filled the house 
with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had 
retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, 

1. the wild huntsman, or der wilde Jdger, figures largely in German 
popular story. See the ballad of the same name by Burger. 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 237 

who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of 
the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been 
recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the 
very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked 
a small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams 
of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen 
tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled 
midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the gar- 
den. She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to 
the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the 
trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon 
the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Specter 
Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her 
ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music and 
had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. 
When she looked again, the specter had disappeared. 

Of the two females the aunt now required the most sooth- 
ing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to 
the young lady, there was something, even in the specter of 
her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the sem- 
blance of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is 
but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a lovesick 
girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is 
consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that 
chamber again ; the niece, for once, was refractory, and de- 
clared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the 
castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone ; 
but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story 
of the specter, lest she should be denied the only melancholy 
pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber 
over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this 



238 THE SKETCH BOOK 

promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the mar- 
velous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a 
frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neighbor- 
hood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she 
kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was suddenly 
absolved from all further restraint by intelligence brought 
to the breakfast table one morning that the young lady was 
not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not 
been slept in — the window was open, and the bird had flown! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence 
was received can only be imagined by those who have wit- 
nessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause 
among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a 
moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when 
the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her 
hands and shrieked out, "The goblin! The goblin! She's 
carried away by the goblin." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
and concluded that the specter must have carried off his 
bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for 
they had heard thfe clattering of a horse's hoofs down the 
mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the 
specter on his black charger bearing her away to the tomb. 
All present were struck with the direful probability; for 
events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as 
many well-authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! 
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a mem- 
ber of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only 
daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to 
have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a 
troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, h& was completely 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 239 

bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were 
ordered to take horse and scour every road and path and 
glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn 
on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to 
mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he 
was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was 
seen approaching the castle mounted on a palfrey, attended 
by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, 
sprang from her horse, and, falling at the baron's feet, em- 
braced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her com- 
panion — the Specter Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. 
He looked at his daughter, then at the specter, and almost 
doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was 
wonderfully improved in his appearance since his visit to the 
world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble 
figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and 
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow 
of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no gob- 
lin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust., 
He related his adventure with the young count. He told 
how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome 
tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted 
him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the 
bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few 
hours near her he had tacitly suffered the mistake to con- 
tinue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to 
make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had 
suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hos- 
tility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — 
had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window 



240 THE SKETCH BOOK 

— had wooed — had won — had borne away in triumph — and, 
in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been 
inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and 
devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his 
daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her 
still alive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, 
yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was some- 
thing, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord 
with his notions of strict veracity in the joke the knight had 
passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several old 
friends present, who had served in the wars, assured him that 
every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier 
was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a 
trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the 
castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this 
new member of the family with loving kindness; he was so 
gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were 
somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion 
and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but 
attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows 
grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having 
her marvelous story marred, and that the only specter she 
had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece 
seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial 
flesh and blood — and so the story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte,.. 
Living in brasse or stoney monument. 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 

Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 

And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

— Christolero'sI Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the 
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and 
evening almost mingle together and throw a gloom over the 
decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling 
about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial 
to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; 
and, as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back 
into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the 
shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular 
perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue 
I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old 

1. Christolero. Chrestoleros was the pseudonym of Thomas Bastard 
(1566-1618), who published his book of epigrams in 1598. Irving gives 
an incorrect form of the pseudonym. 

24^ 



242 THE SKETCH BOOK 

verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, 
and seeming like a specter from one of the neighboring tombs. 
The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic 
remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. 
The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion 
of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps and 
crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over 
the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the 
death's heads and other funereal emblems. The sharp 
touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the 
arches ; the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their 
leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapi- 
dations of time, which yet has something touching and pleas- 
ing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass 
in the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage 
with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades 
the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, 
and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into 
the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- 
deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones 
which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was 
attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly 
worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were 
the effigies of three of the early abbots; the epitaphs were 
entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt 
been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas.^ 1082, and 
Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 

1. Abbas, the Latin title "abbot." 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 243 

1176.) I remained some little while, musing over these 
casual relics of antiquity thus left like wrecks upon this 
distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had 
been, and had perished; teaching no moral but the futility 
of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes 
and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these 
faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease 
to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these 
gravestones I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, 
reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among 
the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of 
departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the 
lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward 
toward the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door 
opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the 
magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, con- 
trasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with 
wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with 
arches springing from them to such an amazing height; and 
man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance 
in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness 
and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mys- 
terious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fear- 
ful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while 
every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among 
the sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have 
interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless rever- 
ence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated 
bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history 
with their deeds and the earth with their renown. 



244 THE SKETCH BOOK 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human 
ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled 
in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a 
scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to 
those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy; and 
how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to 
catch the casual notice of the passenger,^ and save from for- 
getfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired 
to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poets' Corner,^ which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 
monuments are generally simple; for the lives of literary 
men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare 
an d Ad dison have statues erected to their memories; buflEe 
greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere in- 
scriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memo- 
rials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey 
remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling 
takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with 
which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and 
the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of 
friends and companions; for indeed there is something of 
companionship between the author and the reader. Other 
men are known to posterity only through the medium of 
history, which is continually growing faint and obscure; but 
the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever 
new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than 
for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and 
shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might 
the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant 

1. passenger. The usual word is passer-b?/. 2. Poets' Corner. One 
American, Longfellow, is now commemorated in the Poets' Corner. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 24S 

ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been 
purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
diligent dis£ensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be 
grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not 
of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of 
wisdom, bright gems of thought and golden veins of language. 

From Poets' Corner I continued my stroll toward that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings. 
I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now 
occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At 
every turn I met with some illustrious name, or the cognj: 
zance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the 
"eye^darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches 
glimpses of quaint effigies; some kneeling in niches, as if in 
devotion; others ""stretcKed upon the tombs, with hands 
piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing 
after battle; prelates with crosiers and m.iters; and nobles in 
robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over 
this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so 
still and silent, it seem^^most as if we were treading a man- 
sion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly 
transmuted into stone.^ 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of 
a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one 
arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon 
the breast; the face was almost covered by the morion;- the 
legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been en- 
gaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; of one 
of those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled re- 
ligion and rom.ance, and whose exploits form the connecting 

1. into stone, Arabian Nights Entertainments, Sixty-fifth Night. 2. 
morion, open helmet. 



246 THE SKETCH BOOK 

link between fact and fiction; between the history and the 
fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the 
tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude 
armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with 
the antiquated chapels in which they are generally ^und ; 
and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with 
the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chival- 
rous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the 
wars for the sepulcher of Christ. They are the relics of times 
utterly gone by; of beings passed from recollection; of cus- 
toms and manners with which ours have no affinity. 

They are like objects from some strange and distant land, 
of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all 
our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something 
extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Got^g, 
tombs,^ extended as if in the sleep of death^orlnThe suppli- 
cation of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more 
impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the 
overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound 
on modem monuments. I have been struck, also, with the 
superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There 
was a noble w^ay in former times of saying things simply, and 
yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that 
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honor- 
able lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that 
"all the brothers^ were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poets' Corner stands a monu- 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of 
modern art; but which to me appears horrible rather than 

1. Gothic tombs. The word Gothic is used by Irving, as generally 
in his period, in a ver y indiscrim inating way, of almost anything ancient 
and medieval. See page 251, irTthe^escription of the coronation chair. 
2. all the brothers, etc. See Appendix, page 486. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 247 

sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale/ by Roubillac.^ 
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open 
its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. 
The shroud is falling from its fleshless frame as he launches 
his dart at" his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted 
husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic*effort, to 
avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth 
and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the .gibberiivg yell of 
triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. 
But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unneces- 
sary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those 
we love? The grave should be surrounded by everything 
that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead ; or 
that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of 
disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
^jsles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy 
existence from without occasionally reaches the ear: the 
rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur of the multi- 
tude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is 
striking with the deathlike repose around; and it has a 
strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the^surges of 
active life hurrying along and beating against the very walls 
of the sepulcher. 

I continued in this way to move from tombjtortomb, and 
from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; 
the disf ant ^read of loiterers about the abbey grew less and 
less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to 
evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in 

1. Mrs. Nightingale, Lady Elizabeth Nightingale, who died in 
1731. 2. Roubillac, Francois (1695-1762), a French sculptor in Eng- 
land. 



248 THE SKETCH BOOK 

their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. 
I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. 
A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but 
magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately 
wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluc- 
tant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most 
gorgeous of sepulchers. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- 
tecture and the elaborate beauty of sculpture^'^tail. The 
very walls are wrought into universal ornament incrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the 
statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning 
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and 
density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of 
a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath^^ richly carved of oak, though with the 
grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinna- 
cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the 
knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are 
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, 
and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson 
with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this 
grand mausoleum stands the sepulcher of its founder — his 
effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, 
and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen 
railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and 

1. Knights of the Bath, an order of English knighthood. They 
were so called because part of the ceremony of inauguration consisted 
of immersion in water as a symbol of purification. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 249 

aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the 
dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 



Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneli- 
ness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former 
throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls 
of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty 
but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my 
imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright 
with the valor^ancl' beauty of the land; glittering with the 
splendor of jeweled rank and military array; alive with the 
tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. 
All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again 
upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of 
birds, which had found their way into the chapel and built 
their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of 
solitariness and desertiolnr 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
those of men scattered far and wide about the world: some 
tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; 
some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; 
all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of 
shadowy honors — the melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave, which brings 
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles 
the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the 
sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of 
her victim, the lovely and unfortunat e Marv t Not an hour 
in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the 
fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. 
The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher continually echo with the 
sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 



250 THE SKETCH BOOK 

lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows dark- 
ened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 
shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the 
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing 
her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wander- 
ing, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving 
in my mind the checkered and disastrous story of poor 
Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the 
priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 
of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 
The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually 
prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest 
to the place: 

For in the silent grave^ no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon 
the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 
rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their 
volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building! 
With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and 
breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulcher vocal ! And now they rise in 
triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their 
jLCCordant notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they 

1. For in the silent grave, etc. From Thierry and Theodoret, iv, i, 
by Beaumont and Fletcher. See note 3, page 136. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 251 

pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet 
gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, 
and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of 
heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thun- 
ders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the 
soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn sweeping 
concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it 
"filis^nie vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is 
stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is wind- 
ing up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — 
the very soul seems rapt away and floated upward on this 
swelling tide of harmony! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire; the shadows of 
evening were gradually thickening round me ; the monuments 
began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock 
again gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, 
and I ascended the small staircase thaTconducts to it, to take 
from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. 
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close 
around it are the sepulchers of yarious kings^and queens. 
From this_eminence the eye looks down between pillars and 
funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded 
with tombs, where wai'riors^ prelates, courtie rs and states- 
men, lie moldering in their "beds of darkness."^ Close by 
me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, 
in the barbarous taste of a remote~^nd Gothic age. The 

1. beds of darkness. See Job xvii, 13: "If I wait, the grave is 
mine house; I have made my bed in the darkness." 



252 THE SKETCH BOOK 

scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, 
to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of 
the beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here 
it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. 
Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had 
been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — to 
show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the 
neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon 
that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it 
must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be 
trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. 
For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctu- 
ary. There is a shocking levity in some natures which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are 
base minds which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead 
the abject homage and^gLoyeling servility which they pay to 
the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been 
broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal 
ornaments; the scepter has been stolen from the hand of the 
imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry t he F iTth lies 
headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how 
false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are 
plundered; some mutilated; some covered with ribaldry and 
insult — all more or less outraged and dishonored! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of 
twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 
The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble 
figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the un- 
certain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like 
the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 253 

a verger, traversing the Poets' Corner, had something strange 
and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's 
walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the 
door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole 
building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were 
already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, 
inscriptions, trophies, had all become CQnlounded in my 
recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off 
the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage 
of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of 
reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the cer- 
tainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death; his 
great shadowy palace where he sits in state, mocking at the 
relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness 
on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is 
the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning 
over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of 
the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that 
gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown 
aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of today pushes the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be 
supplanted by his successor of tomorrow. "Our fathers," 
says Sir Thomas Browne,^ ''find their graves in our short 
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our 
survivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded 
with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from 
the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, 
arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; and their 

1. Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682) published his Hydriotaphia, or 
Urn Burial, in 1658. Both quotations are from Chapter V of this work. 



254 THE SKETCH BOOK 

epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the 
security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment? 
The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered 
to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere 
curiosity of a museum. ^'The Egyptian mummies,^ which 
Cambyses- or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; 
Mizraim^ cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 
What then is to insure this pile* which now towers above 
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The 
time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring 
so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead 
of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle 
through the broken arches and the owl hoot from the shat- 
tered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these 
gloomy mansions of death and the ivy twine round the fallen 
column; and the foxglove hang its blossoms about the name- 
less urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes 
away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his 
history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument 
becomes a ruin. 

1. Egyptian mummies, etc. Quoted from Sir Thomas Browne (1605- 
1682). 2. Cambyses, Cambyses III, King of Persia in 525, conquered 
Egypt. 3. Mizraim, Biblical name for Egypt. 4. this pile. For 
notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix, page 483. 



CHRISTMAS 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair 
of his good, gray old head and beard left? Well, I will have that» 
seeing I cannot have more of him. 

— Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

— Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell over 
my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs 
and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures 
my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as 
yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to 
be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them 
the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, 
with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more 
homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say 
I that they are daily growing more and more faint, being 
gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by 
modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels 
of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various 
parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, 
and partly lost in the additions and alterations of later days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the 
rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so 
many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about 

255 



2S6 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the Gothic arch and moldering tower, gratefully repaying 
their support by clasping together their tottering remains, 
and, as it were, embalming them in v erdure . 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak- 
ens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a 
tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with ou r con- 
^viyiality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and ele- 
vated enjoyment. The services of the church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on 
the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral 
scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually 
increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, 
until they break forth^mrfull jubilee on the morning that 
brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a 
grander effect of music on the moral feeling than to hear 
the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas 
anthem in a cathedral and filling every part of the vast pile 
with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the 
season for gathering together of family connections, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which 
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- 
tinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children 
of a family, who have launched forth in life and wandered 
widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal 
hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow 
young and loving again among the endearing mementos of 
childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times 



CHRISTMAS 257 

we "derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate^ 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the 
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voliiptiy^ 
ousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with 
its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep, deli- 
cious blue and its cloudy magnificence — all fill us with mute 
but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sen- 
sation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies de- 
spoiled of every charm and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The 
dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy 
days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wan- 
derings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and 
make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social 
circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly 
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm 
of each other's society, and are brought more closely together 
by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth 
unto heart,^ and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells 
of loving-kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our 
bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure 
element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom wfthout makes the heart ^ate on enter- 
ing the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening 
fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sun- 
shine through the roorn7 and lights up each countenance in a 
kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality 
expand into a broader and more cordial smile — ^where is the 
shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter 

1. Heart calleth unto heart. See note 1, page 55. 



258 THE SKETCH BOOK 

fireside? And as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes 
through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the 
casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more 
grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security 
with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber 
and the scene of domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the 
stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, 
particularly observant of the religious and social rites of 
Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which 
some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the bur- 
lesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and 
good-fellowship with which this festival was celebrated. 
It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. 
It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended 
all ranks in one warm, generous flow of joy and kindness. 
The old halls of castles and manor houses resounded with 
the harp and the Cbristmas carol, and their ample boards 
groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest 
cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations 
of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through 
the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch and join 
the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long 
evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is 
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus- 
toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and 
spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn 
down society into a more smo^otK and polished, but certainly 
a less characteristic, surface. Many of the games and cere- 



CHRISTMAS 259 

monials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like 
the sherris sack^ of old Falstaff, are become matters of 
speculation and dispute among commentators. They flour- 
ished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed 
life roughly, but heartily and vigorously; times wild and 
picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest 
materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety 
of characters and manners. The world has become more 
worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoy- 
ment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shal- 
lower stream; and has forsaken many of those deep and 
quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm 
bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- 
ened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong 
local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside 
delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted an- 
tiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have 
passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor 
houses in which they were celebrated. The y comported w ith 
the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried 
parlor, but are unfitted to the light, showy saloons and gay 
drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- 
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely 
aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English 
bosom. The preparations m.aking on every side for the social 
board that is again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents 
of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, 
and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed 

1. sherris sack. Falstaff expounds the virtues of sherris sack in 
Henry IV, Part 2, iv, iii, 104 ff. 



260 THE SKETCH BOOK 

about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness; 
all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond 
associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the 
sound of the waits/ rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks 
upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect of 
perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that 
still and solemn hour, "when deep sleep^ falleth upon man," 
I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting them 
with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied 
them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and 
good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns everything to melody and 
beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in 
the profound repose of the country, "telling the night 
watches^ to his feathery dames," was thought by the com- 
mon people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 

Some say that ever-^ 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time. 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, the stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, 
what bosom can remai n insen sible? It is, indeed, the season 
of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling not merely 

1. waits, singers of Christmas serenades or carols. 2. when deep 
sleep, etc., Job iv, 13. 3. telling the night watches, etc., slightly 
altered from Milton's Comus, 1, 346. 4. Some say that ever, etc., 
from Hamlet, L, 1,158, ff. Part of the passage is quoted again on page 
283. 



CHRISTMAS 261 

the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of 
charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory be- 
yond the sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught 
with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the 
drooping spirit, as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft 
the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the 
desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open 
its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at 
the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming 
into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. 
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and 
every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with 
innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the 
rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who 
can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of 
his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in 
his loneliness when all around is joyful, may hav^e Lis mo- 
ments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he 
wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the 
charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGECOACH 

Omne benei 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

-Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general obser- 
vations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am 
tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas 
passed in the country ; in perusing which I would most cour- 
teously invite my reader to lay aside the auste^rity of wisdom, 
and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of 
folly and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for 
a long distance in one of the public coaches on the day pre- 
ceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and 
out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally 
bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the 
Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game 
and baskets and boxes of delicacies, and hares hung dan- 
gling their long ears about thfe coachman's box, presents from 
distant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine, 
rosy-cheeked boys for my fellow passengers inside, full of the 
buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the 
children of this country. They Were returning home for the 
holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of 
enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of 

1. Omne bene, etc., all is well; the time has come for playing 
without penalty; now is the hour for laying aside books without delay. 

262 



THE STAGECOACH 263 

the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to 
perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the ab- 
horred thralldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were 
full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and 
household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they 
were to give their little sisters by the presents with which 
their pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they 
seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was 
with Bantam, which I found to be a pony^ and, according 
to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since 
the days of Bucephalus.^ How he could trot! how he could 
run ! and then such leaps as he would take — there was not a 
hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they 
addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the 
best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the 
more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the 
coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side and had a 
large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of 
his coat. He is always a person age full of mighty care and 
business, but he is particularly so during this season, having 
so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great 
interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be 
unacceptable to my untraveled readers, to have a sketch that 
may serve as a general representation of this very numerous 
and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 
manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and 
prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an 
English stage coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken 
for one of any other craft or mystery.^ 

1. Bucephalus, the steed of Alexander the Great. 2. mystery. The 
word is from the Latin ministerium, and means "trade" or "occupation." 



264 THE SKETCH BOOK 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into 
every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions 
by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still 
further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is 
buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. 
He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of 
colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and 
tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer time a large 
bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole; the present, most 
probably, of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is 
commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small clothes 
extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots 
which reach about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; he 
has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials;* and, 
notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, 
there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of per- 
son which is almost inherent in an Englishman. lie enjoys 
great consequence and consideration along the road; has 
frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look 
upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he 
seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed 
country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are 
to be changed he throws down the reins with something of an 
air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler; his 
duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When 
off the box his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great- 
coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most 
absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an 
admiring throng of hostlers, stableboys, shoeblacks, and 
those nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and 



THE STAGECOACH 265 

run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs for the privilege of 
battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of 
the taproom. These all look up to him as to an oracle; 
treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses 
and other topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavor to 
imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a 
coat to his back thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his 
gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in 
every countenance throughout the journey. A stagecoach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and puts the 
world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the 
entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes 
to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly 
take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the 
meantime, the coachman has a world of small commissions 
to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; some- 
times jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a 
public house; and sometimes, with knowing J_ee^ and words 
of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing 
housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux^ from some rustic ad- 
mirer. As the coach rattles through the village, everyone 
runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of 
fresh country faces and blooming, giggling girls. At the 
corners are assembled^jjin^^ of village idlers and wise men, 
who take their stations there for the important purpose of 
seeing company pass ; but the sagest knot is generally at the 
blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event 
fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's 

1. billet-doux, love letter. 2. juntos. See note 1, page 83. 



266 THE SKETCH BOOK 

heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the Cyclops^ 
round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers and suffer 
the iron to^grow cool ; and the sooty specter in brown paper 
cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a mo- 
ment, and permits thF^sthmatic engine to heave a long- 
drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and 
sulphurous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as 
if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, 
poultry, and other luxuries of the table were in brisk circu- 
lation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were 
stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and 
the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries, 
began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to 
mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations: 
"Now capons and hens,^ beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, 
with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a 
multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums 
and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. 
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must 
dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the 
fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be 

1. The Cyclops were the one-eyed giants of Greek mythology. They 
were famous blacksmiths, assisting Vulcan in forging Jupiter's thunder- 
bolts and Neptune's trident. 2. Now capons /and hens, etc., from 
The Twelve Months of Matthew Stevenson, published in 1661. The 
reference to holly and ivy is an allusion to an old Christmas custom 
according to which the ivy and the holly are supposed to hold a dispute 
as to which shall have the chief place in the Christmas decorations. 
The theme is the subject of a number of Christmas songs (see BuUen, 
Carols and Poems, page 68), of which the opening lines of one are 
as follows: 

"Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be i-wis, 
Let holly have the mastery as the manner is." 



THE STAGECOACH 267 

^ent again if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas Eve. 
Great is thejcontention of holly and ivy, whether master or 
dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; 
and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his 
fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a 
shout from my little traveling companions. They had been 
looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, 
recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, 
and now there was a general burst of joy. "There's John! 
and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" c»ied the happy 
little rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking servant 
in livery waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a super- 
_annuatedj3ointer and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little 
old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, 
who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of 
the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fel- 
lows leaped about the steady old footman and hugged the 
pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam 
was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount at once, 
and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they 
should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands; both talking at once, and overpowering him with 
questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked 
after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether 
pleasure or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded 
of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor 
sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. 



268 THE SKETCH BOOK 

We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, 
and on resuming our route a turn of the road brought us in 
sight of a neat countryseat. I could just distinguish the 
forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I 
saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, 
trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
window in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gate- 
way of the ^n, I saw on one side the light of a rousing 
kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and 
admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, 
neatness, and broad, honest enjoyment — the kitchen of an 
English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round 
with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated 
here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and 
flitches of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke- 
jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a 
clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table ex- 
tended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of 
beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foam- 
ing tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travelers of 
inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, 
while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two 
high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids 
were hurrying backward and forward under the directions 
of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional 
moment to exchange a flippant word and have a rallying 
laugh with the group round the fire. The scene completely 
realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid- 
winter: 



I 



THE STAGECOACH 269 

Now treesi their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require. 

I had not been long at the inn when a post chaJ5,&. drove up 
to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the 
light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which 
I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, 
when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank 
Bracebrjiige^a sprightly, good-humored young fellowj with 
whom I had once traveled on the Continent. Our meeting 
was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old fellow 
traveler always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To 
discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impos- 
sible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was 
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I 
should give him a day or two at his father's countryseat, to 
which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a 
few miles' distance. "It is better than eating a solitary 
Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can assure you 
of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." 
His reasoning was cogent^ and I must confess the prepara- 
tion I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment 
had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I 
closed, therefore, at once with his invitation; the chaise 
drove up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my 
way to the family mansion of the Braceb ridges . 

1. Now trees, etc., from Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. Poor Robin's 
Almanac, referred to by Irving here and frequently in The Sketch Book, 
ran a number of years, beginning 1661. It is supposed to have been 
started by Robert Herrick, the poet. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
From the nightmare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

— Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; 
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post- 
boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. "He knows where he is going," 
said my companion, laughing, "and is eager to arrive in time 
for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' 
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the 
old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of 
old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what 
you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old 
English country gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so 
much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much 
into the country, that the strong, rich peculiarities of ancient 
rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, 
from early years took honest Peacham for his textbook^ 
instead of Chesterfield;- he determined in his own mind that 

1. his textbook, 'Peacham'' s Complete Gentleman, 1Q22. 2. Chester- 
field. The Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773) posed as the model of the 
fine gentleman in his period. In his writings, particularly his letters to 
his son, he lays down many rules of conduct. 

270 



CHRISTMAS EVE 271 

there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable 
than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and 
therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is 
a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games 
and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, 
ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed 
his favorite range of reading is among the authors who 
flourished at least two centuries since; who, he insists, wrote 
and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their 
successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been 
born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself and 
had its peculiar manners and customs. iVs he lives at some 
distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the 
country without any rival gentry near him, he has that most 
enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of 
indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. 
Being representative of the oldest family in the neighbor- 
hood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he 
is much looked up to, and in general is known simply by the 
appellation of ^The Squire' — a title which has been accorded 
to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think it 
best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to 
prepare you for any eccentricities that might otherwise 
appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and 
at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, 
magnificent old style, of iron bars fancifully wrought at top 
into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that 
supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. 
Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark 
fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 



272 THE SKETCH BOOK 

through the still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion house seemed gar- 
risoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. 
As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of 
a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique 
taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair 
peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came 
curtsying forth, with many expressions of simple joy at 
seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up 
at the house keeping Christmas Eve in the servants' hall; 
they could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a 
song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, 
while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound through 
a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which 
the moon glittered, as she rolled through the deep vault of a 
cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight 
covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moon- 
beams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance might be 
seen a thin, transparent vapor, stealing up from the low 
grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport: "How 
often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue on return- 
ing home on school vacations! How often have I played 
under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree of filial rever- 
ence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us 
in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting 
our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. 
He used to direct and superintend our games with the strict- 
ness that some parents do the studies of their children. He 
was very particular that we should play the old English 



CHRISTMAS EVE 273 

games according to their original form; and consulted old 
books for precedent and authority for every 'merrie disport' ; 
yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It 
was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children 
feel that home was the happiest place in the world; and I 
value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts 
a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp^ and hound, and 
curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's 
bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open- 
mouthed, across the lawn. 

"—The little dogs and all 2 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!" 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of 
the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. 
One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone- 
shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from 
among the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes 
of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house 
was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having 
been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his 
ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the Restora- 

1. mongrel, puppy, whelp, etc., from Goldsmith's Elegy on the 
Death of a Mad Dog. 2. the little dogs and all, etc., from King Lear, 
III, vi, 65. 



274 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tion.^ The grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower beds, clipped shrubberies, 
raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented 
with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The 
old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve 
this obsolete finery in all its original state. He admired this 
fashion in gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was 
courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The 
boasted imitation of nature in modern gardening had sprung 
up with modern republican notions, but did not suit a monar- 
chical government; it smacked of the leveling system — I 
could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into 
gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I 
should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only 
instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle wuth 
politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion from a 
member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with 
him. The squire was glad of any argument to defend his 
clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occa- 
sionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the 
building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the 
servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, 
and even encouraged by the squire, throughout the twelve 
days^ of Christmas, provided everything was done conform- 
ably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of 
hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the 

1. Restoration. This took place in 1660, when Charles II returned to 
the English throne after the period of Puritan supremacy. 2, twelve 
days. The Christmas celebration formerly lasted until Twelfth Night, 
that is, the twelfth day after Christmas. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 275 

white loaf, bob apple, and snapdragon; the yule clog^ and 
Christmas candle were regularly burned, and the mistletoe,^ 
with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all 
the pretty housemaids. 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had 
to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. 
On our arrival being announced, the squire came out to re- 
ceive us, accompanied by his tvv^o other sons; one a young 
officer in the army, home on leave of absence; the other an 
Oxonian, just from the university. The squire was a fine, 
healthy -looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly 
round an open, florid countenance, in which the physiog- 
nomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint 
or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and 
benev olence. 

1. yule clog. The yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the 
root of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on Christ- 
mas Eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's 
clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling 
of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but 
in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great 
wood fire. The yule clog was to burn all night; if it went out, it was 
considered a sign of ill luck. ^ 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: — 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes. 
The Christmas log to the firing; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free. 
And drink to your hearts' desiring. 
The yule clog is still burned in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- 
land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions 
connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to 
the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an 
ill omen. The brand remaining from the yule clog is carefully put away 
to light the next year's Christmas fire. [Author's Note.] 2. the mistle- 
toe. The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at 
Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girl.s 
under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries 
are all plucked, the privilege ceases. [Author's Note.] 



276 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate. As the 
evening was far advanced the squire would not permit us to 
change our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the 
company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numerous family 
connection, where there were the usual proportion of old 
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated 
spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged ^triplings, 
and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were vari- 
ously occupied; some at a round game of cards ;^ others 
conversing around the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a 
group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a 
more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, 
and tattered dolls about the floor showed traces of a troop 
of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy 
day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful 
night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in 
old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore 
it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy pro- 
jecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in 
armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall 
hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous 
pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving 
as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in 
the corners of the apartment were fowling pieces, fishing- 
rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of 
the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some 

1. round game of cards, i. c, each playing without a partner. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 277 

articles of modern convenience had been added, and the 
oaken floor had been carpeted; so that the whole presented 
an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been remove'd^'from the wide, overwhelming^ 
fireplace., to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of 
which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending 
forth a vast volume of light and heat. This I understood 
was thej^ule clog, which the squire w^as particular in having 
brought in and illumined on a Christmas Eve, according to 
ancient custom. 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireplace of his 
ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, 
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the 
very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his 
position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's 
face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again 
to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an 
emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which can- 
not be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the 
stranger at once at his ease. I ha4 not been seated many 
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, 
before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one 
of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family 
portraits decorated with holly and i\y. Besides the accus- 
tomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, 
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-polished 

1. overwhelming, " overhanging" ; not a modern use of the word but 
found in this sense in Shakespeare. 



278 THE SKETCH BOOK 

buffet among the family plate. The table was abundantly 
spread with substantial fare ; but the squire made his supper 
of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with 
rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas 
Eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the 
retinue of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox 
and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted 
him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old 
and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Braceb ridge 
always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master 
Simon. He was a tight,^ brisk little man, with the air of an" 
arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a 
parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the smallpox, with a dry, 
perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He 
had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery 
and lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. He 
was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly 
jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite 
merriment by harping upon old themes; which, unfor- 
tunately, my ignorance of the family c hronicles did not per- 
mit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during 
supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony 
of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of thejeproving looks 
of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of 
the younger part of the company, who laughed at everything 
he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance; I could 
not wonder at it, for he must have been a miracle of accom- 
plishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; 

1. tight, tidy. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 279 

make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a 
burnt cork and pocket handkerchief; and cut an orange into 
such a ludicrous caricature that the young folks were ready 
to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, 
and sometimes another quite remote; as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes 
in England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always 
enjoying the present moment; and his frequent change of 
scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty, un- 
accommodating habits, with which old bachelors are so 
uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chronicle, 
being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of 
the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great 
favorite with the old folks; he was a beau of all the elder 
ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was 
habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he was mas- 
ter of the revels among the children ; so that there was not a 
more popular being in the sphere in which he moved than 
Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost 
entirely with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his 
humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an 
old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a speci- 
men of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper 
removed and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to 
the season introduced than Master Simon was called on for 
a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a 



280 THE SKETCH BOOK 

moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that 
was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into 
a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth 
a quaint old ditty. 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed everyone to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had 
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance com- 
forting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed.^ He 
was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, 
and, though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener 
to be found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the 
old gentleman being fond of the sound of "harp in hall." 

The dance^ like most dances after supper, was a merry 
one; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire him- 
self figured down several couple with a partner with whom 
he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half 
a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of con- 
necting link between the old times and the new, and to be 
withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, 
evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavor- 
ing to gain" credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other 
graces of the ancient school; but he had unluckily assorted 
himself with a little romping girl from boarding school, who 
by her wild vivacity kept him continually on the stretch and 

1. home-brewed home-brewed ale; better than that made by the 
brewers for the trade. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 281 

defeated all his sober attempts at elegance — such are the 
ill-assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfor- 
tunately _prone! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of 
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand 
little knaveries with impunity. He was full of practical 
jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins; 
yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite 
among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance 
was the young officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful, 
blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which 
I had noticed in the course of the evening I suspected there 
was a little kindness growing up between them; and, indeed, 
the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic 
girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most 
young British officers of late years, had picked up various 
small accomplishments on the Continent: he could talk 
^rench and Italian; draw landscapes, sing very tolerably; 
dance divinely; but, above all, he had been wounded at 
Waterloo.^ What girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and 
romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and per- 
fection! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace in an attitude 
which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the 
little French air of the, troubadour.^ The squire, however, 
exclaimed against having anything on Christmas Eve but 
good old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up 
his eye for a moment as if in an effort of memory, struck into 

1. Waterloo. This battle (1815) took place only a few years before 
this essay was written. 2. troubadour. The troubadours w^ere love- 
poets in the south of France, who flourished from the eleventh to the 
thirteenth centuries. 



282 THE SKETCH BOOK 

another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, gave 
Herrick's^ "Night-Piece to Julia." 

Her eyes the glowworm lend thee; 
The shooting stars attend thee; 

And the elves also, 

Whose httle eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee; 
Nor «^nake nor slowworm bite thee; 

^ t on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber? 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light. 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto me; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was 
called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such 
application, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her 
eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, 
with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle"^eaving of the 
bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of 
the dance; indeed, so great was her indifference that she 
amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of 
hothouse flowers, and by the time the song was concluded 
the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 

1. Herrick, Robert (1591-1674). 



CHIRISTMAS EVE 283 

hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through 
the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the 
yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been 
the season when "no spirit dares stir abroad,"^ I should have 
been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and 
peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about 
the hearth. 

My chamber was in th e old par t of the mansion, the pon- 
derous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the 
days of the giants. The room was paniied with cornices 
of heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces 
were strangely intermingled; and a row of black-looking 
portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed 
was of rich though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and 
stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I had scarcely got 
into bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the 
air just below the window. I listened, and found it pro- 
ceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits^ from 
some neighboring village. They went round the house, play- 
ing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear 
them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the 
upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the anti- 
quated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became 
more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet 
and moonlight. I listened and listened — they became m.ore 
and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died 
away, my head sank upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 

1. no spirit dares stir abroad. See note 4, page 260. 2. waits. 
See note 1, page 260. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Dark and dull night, fly hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turned to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morn 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell hke to a mead new-shorn, 
Thus on the sudden? Come and see. 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

— Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and noth- 
ing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of 
their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the 
sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whis- 
pering ^consultation. Presently a choir of small voices 
chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which 
was — 

Rejoice, our Savior He was born 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups 
that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two 
girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. 
They were going the rounds of the house and singing at 
every chamber door; but my sudden appearance frightened 
them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment 
playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then 
stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if 
by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned 

284 



CHRISTMAS DAY 28S 

an angle of the gallery I heard them laughing in triumph 
at their escape. """"" 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 
in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a 
fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park 
beyond, with noble clumps of trees and herds of deer. At a 
distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage 
chimneys hanging over it, and a church with its dark spire 
in strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The house was 
surrounded with evergreens, according to the English cus- 
tom, which would have given almost an appearance of sum- 
mer; but the morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor 
of the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, 
and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its 
fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had 
a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, 
perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters 
of red berries just before my window, was basking himself 
in the sunshine and piping a few querulous notes; and a 
peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and 
strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on 
the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the 
principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer- 
books ; the servants were seated on benchesjbelow. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the^^gaUery, 
and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses; 



286 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted him- 
self with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which 
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his 
favorite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old 
church melody by Master Simon. As there were several 
good voices among the household, the effect was extremely 
pleasing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation 
of heart and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the 
worthy squire delivered one stanza; his eye glistening, and 
his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune: 

'Tis thou that crown'st my ghttering hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink 

Spiced to the brink. 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soils my land; 
And giv'st me for my bushel sown, 

Twice ten for one. 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was 
read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout the year, 
either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. 
It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the 
nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted 
that the custom is falling into neglect; for the dullest ob- 
server must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent 
in those households where the occasional exercise of a beau- 
tiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the 
keynote to every temper for the day, and attunes every 
spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamenta- 
tions over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen- 
sured as among the causes of modem effeminacy and weak 



CHRISTMAS DAY 287 

nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness; and though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, 
yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, 
on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by 
a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about 
the establishment, from the frisking spaniel to the steady 
old staghound, the last of which was of a race that had been 
in the family time out of mind; they were all obedient to a 
dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's buttonhole, and 
in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occa- 
sionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not but 
feel the force of the squire's idea that the formal terraces, 
heavily molded balustrades^and clipped yew trees carried 
with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to 
be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I 
was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of 
them that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was 
gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who 
told me that, according to the most ancient and approved 
treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. "In 
the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, "we 
say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of 
deer, of wrens or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of 
rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert,^ we ought to ascribe to this bird "both 
understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently 

1. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert (1470-1538), author of the volume re- 
ferred to on page 288. 



288 THE SKETCH BOOK 

set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may • 
the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the 
leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself , 
in corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition 
on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks 
were birds of some consequence at the hall ; for Frank^ race- 
bridge informed me that they were great favorites with his 
father, who was extremely careful to keep up the breed; 
/. partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were in great 
request at the stately banquets of the olden time, and partly 
Q. . because they had a pomp and magnificence about them, 
highly becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was 
accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity 
than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balus- 
trade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 
something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal 
spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat 
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly 
were not in the range of everyday reading. I mentioned 
this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me 
with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of er uditio n 
was confined to some half a dozen old authors, which the 
squire had put into his hands, and which he read over and 
over, whenever he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had on 
a rainy day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitz- 
herbert's Book of Husbandry; Markham's^ Country Con- 

1. Markham, Gervase (1568-1637) published his Country Content- 
ments in 1611. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 289 

tentments; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cock- 
ayne,^ Knight; Izaac Walton's- Angler, and two or three 
more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard 
authorities, and, like all men who know but a few books, he 
looked up to them with a kind of idolatry and quoted them 
on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked 
out of old books in the squire's library, and adapted to tunes 
that were popular among the choice spirits of the last cen- 
tury. His practical application of scraps of literature, how- 
ever, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book 
knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sports- 
men of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of the 
village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little par- 
ticular in having his household at church on a Christmas 
morning; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and 
rejoicing; for, as old Tusser^ observed. 

At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. 

^'If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an 
organ, he has formed a band from the village amateurs and 
established a musical club for their improvement; he has also 
sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, 
according to the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his 
Country Contentments; for the bass he has sought out all the 
'deep, solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing 

1. Sir Thftmas Cockayne's Tretyse appeared in 1591. 2. Izaak 
Walton, Sir Izaak Walton (1593-1683), whose Compleat Angler (1653) is 
his best known work. 3. Tusser, Thomas (1527-1580) wrote works in 
verse on husbandry. 



290 THE SKETCH BOOK 

mouths/ among the country bumpkins; and for 'sweet 
mouths/ he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest 
lasses in the neighborhood; though these last, he affirms, are 
the most difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer 
being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable 
to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was 
a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a^rnile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a 
low, snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. 
The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew tree that had 
been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of 
which apertures had been formed to admit light into the 
small, antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the 
parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such 
as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich 
patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a 
little, meager, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that 
was too wide and stood off from each ear, so that his head 
seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in 
its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pock- 
ets that would have held the church Bible and prayer book; 
and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in 
large shoes decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was 
a complete black-letter^ hunter, and would scascely read a 
work printed in the Roman character. The e ditions of 

1. black-letter. See note 1, page 65. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 291 

Caxton and Wynkin de Worde^ were his delight; and he was 
indefatigable in his researches after such old English writers 
as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In 
deferen ce, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had 
made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday 
customs of former times, and had been as zealous in the in- 
quiry as if he had been a boon companion ; but it was merely 
with that plodding spirit with which men of adust^ temper- 
ament follow up any track of study, merely because it is 
denominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, 
whether it be the illustration of the wisdom or of the ribaldry 
and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old 
volumes so intensely that they seemed to have been re- 
flected in his countenance; which, if the face be indeed an 
index of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of 
black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch we found the parson re- 
buking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe 
among the greens with which the church was decorated. 
It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having 
been used by the druids^ in their mystic ceremonies; and 
though it might be innocently employed in the festive orna- 
menting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by 
the fathers of the church as unhallowed and totally unfit 
for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point that 
the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the 
humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent 
to enter upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on 

1. Caxton, William, of the latter half of the 15th century and Wynkin 
de Worde, of the first half of the 16th century, were two of the earliest 
printers in England. 2. adust, dried up. 3. druids, the priests of 
the ancient Celtic race in Britain. They were of course heathen. 



292 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, 
and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, 
on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs 
crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it 
was one of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy 
Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in 
the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the pew and 
repeated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of 
the old school and a man of old family connections. I ob- 
served, too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer 
book with something of a flourish; possibly to show off an 
enormous seal ring which enriched one of his fingers, and 
which had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently 
most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping 
his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with 
much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, 
among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, 
a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played 
on the clarinet, and seemed to have blown his face to a 
point; and there was another, a short, pursy man, stooping 
and laboring at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the 
top of a round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There 
were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to 
which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright 
rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been 
chosen, like old Cremona^ fiddles, more for tone than looks; 

1. Cremona is an Italian city, formerly celebrated for the violins 
made there. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 293 

and as several had to sing from the same book there were 
clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of 
cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making 
up for lost time by traveling over a passage with prodigious 
celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox hunter 
to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem 
that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and 
on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily 
there was a blunder at the very outset ; the musicians became 
flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on 
lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning 
"Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a 
signal for parting company. All became discord and confu- 
sion; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, 
rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in a 
pair of horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long, sonor- 
ous nose, who happened to stand a little apart, and, being 
wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, 
wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a 
nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it 
not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; sup- 
porting the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
of the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theo- 
philus^ of Caesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Au- 

1. Theophilus, etc., four fathers of the early church, Theophilus 
being of the sixth century, St. Cyprian of the third century, and St. 
Chrysostom and St. Augustine of the fourth century. 



294 THE SKETCH BOOK 

gustine, and a cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom 
he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to per- 
ceive the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to main- 
tain a point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute; 
but I soon found that the good man had a legion of ideal 
adversaries to contend with; having, in the course of his re- 
searches on the subject of Christmas, got completely em- 
broiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution,^ when 
the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies 
of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the 
land by proclamation-' of Parliament. The worthy parson 
lived but with times past, and knew but little of the present. 
Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him 
as the gazettes of the day; while the era of the Revolution 
was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly, two cen- 
turies had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince- 
pie throughout the land ; when plum porridge was denounced 
as "mere popery," and roast beef as anti-christian; and that 
Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the 
merry court of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled 
into warmth with the ardor of his contest and the host of 

1. the Revolution, the Puritan, Revolution of 1041, not that which 
resulted in seating William and Mary on the English throne in 1()8S-1689. 
2. proclamation. From the Flying Eacjle, a small gazette, published 
December 24th, 1652 — "The House spent much time this day about 
the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they 
rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas Day, 
grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v, IG; 1 Cor. xv, 14, 17; and 
in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx, 1; 
Rev. i, 10; Psalm cxviii, 24; Lev. xxiii, 7, 11; Mark xv, 8; Psalm Ixxxiv, 
10, in which Christmas is called Anti-Christ's Masse, and those MassQ- 
mongers and Papists wdio observe it, etc. In consequence of which 
Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of 
Christmas Day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the 
following day, which was commonly called Christmas Day." [Author's 
Note.] 



CHRISTMAS DAY 295 

imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a stub- 
born conflict with old Prynne^ and two or three other for- 
gotten champions of the Roundheads- on the subject of 
Christmas festivity; and concluded by urging his hearers, 
in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the 
traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make 
merry on this joyful anniversary of the church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects; for on leaving the church the con- 
gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of 
spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks 
gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking 
hands; and the children ran about crying "Ule! Ule!"^ and 
repeating some uncouth rimes which the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me had been handed down from days 
of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the squire 
as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with 
every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by 
him to the hall to take something to keep out the cold of 
the weather; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the 
poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoy- 
ments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true 
Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the 
sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears. 

1. Prynne, William (1600-16C9) was a pugnacious Puritan who got 
into many difficulties with the court party. 2. the Roundheads were 
the Puritans; they were called so from their fashion of clipping their 
hair short, whereas the custom of the Cavaliers was to wear the hair 
long. 3. Ule! Ule! "Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule 

Crack nuts and cry Ule!" [Author's Note.] 



296 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The squire paused for a few moments and looked around 
with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day 
was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwith- 
standing the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloud- 
less journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away the 
thin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to 
bring out the living green which adorns an English land- 
scape even in midw^inter. Large tracts of smiling verdure 
contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes 
and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad 
rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, 
glittering through the dripping grass; and sent up slight 
exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just 
above the surface of the earth. There was something truly 
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the 
frosty thralldom of winter; it was, as the squire observed, 
an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the 
chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart 
into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of 
good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable 
farmhouses and low-thatched cottages. 'T love," said he, 
"to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a great thing 
to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of 
being welcome wherever you go, and of having as it were the 
world thrown all open to you ; and I am almost disposed to 
join with Poor Robin, ^ in his malediction on every churlish 
enemy to this honest festival — 

Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 

May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch" catch 'em. 

1. Poor Robin. See note 1, page 269. 2, Squire Ketch, or Jack 
Ketch, a notorious hangman. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 297 

The squire^ went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this 
season among the lower orders and countenanced by the 
higher; when the old halls of the castles and manor houses 
were thrown open at daylight; when the tables were covered 
with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and 
the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were 
alike welcome to enter and make merry. "Our old games 
and local customs," said he, "had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the 
gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times 
merrier and kinder and better, and I can truly say, with one 
of our old poets: 

I like them well. The curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust avs/ay much ancient honesty. 

"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost 
lost our simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their 
interests are separate. They have become too knowing and 
begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and 
talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good 
humor in these hard times would be for the nobility and gen- 
try to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among 

1. the squire, etc. "An English gentleman, at the opening of the 
great day, i.e., on Christmas Day in the morning, had all his tenants 
and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached 
and the black-jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nut- 
meg, and good Cheshire cheese. The hackin (the great sausage) must 
be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden 
(i.e., the cook) by the arms, and run her round the market-place till she 
is shamed of her laziness." — Roundabout Our Sea-Coal Fire. [Author's 
Note.] 



298 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the country people, and set the merry old English games 
going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent; and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open 
house during the holidays in the old style. The country 
people, however, did not understand how to play their parts 
in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth circumstances 
occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the 
country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in 
one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. 
Since then he had contented himself with inviting the decent 
part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on 
Christmas Day, and with distributing beef and bread and 
ale among the poor, that they might make merry in their 
own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without 
coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their 
hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was 
seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of 
villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, 
where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 
formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, 
and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the 
music; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the 
tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the 
skirts of the dance and rattling a Christmas box with many 
antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 



CHRISTMAS DAY 299 

island; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of 
the sword dance of the ancients. "It was now," he said, 
"nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it 
in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, 
to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the 
rough cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter- 
tained with brawn and beef and stout home-brewed. The 
squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It 
is true I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as 
they were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the 
squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace 
and giving each other the wink ; but the moment they caught 
my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly de- 
mure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more 
at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had 
made him well known throughout the neighborhood. He was 
a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage; gossiped with the 
farmers and their wives; romped with their daughters; and, 
like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, tolled 
the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affec- 
tionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited 
by the bounty and familiarity of those above them; the 
warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind 
word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, 
gladdens the heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. 
When the squire had retired the merriment increased, and 
there was much joking and laughter, particularly between 
Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- faced, white-headed farmer, 



300 THE SKETCH BOOK 

who appeared to be the wit of the village; for I observed all 
his companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and 
burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well under- 
stand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment. 
As I passed to my room to dress for dinner I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and looking through a window that 
commanded it I perceived a band of wandering musicians, 
with pandean^ pipes and tambourine; a pretty, coquettish 
housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while 
several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst 
of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the win- 
dow, and, coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
confusion. 

1 . pandean, an adjective formed from Pan, who, in Greek mytholog3\ 
was the inventor of the shepherd's pipe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury't in a Christmas pye. 
And evermore be merry. 

— Withers' Juvenilia.^ 

I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwack- 
ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving 
up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen 
as well as hall; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser 
by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick^ the cook knocked thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
Marched boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away. 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crack- 
ling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious 
apartment, and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up 

1. Withers' Juvenilia. George Wither, or Withers (1588-1667), issued 
a collection of his poems in 1622, under the title Juvenilia. 2. Just 
in this nick, etc., from Sir John Suckling's "Ballad on a Wedding." 

301 



302 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the cru- 
sader and his white horse had been profusely decorated with 
greens for the occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been 
wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the opposite 
wall, which I understood were the arms of the same warrior. 
I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the authen- 
ticity of the painting and armor as having belonged to the 
crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent 
days; but I was told that the painting had been so considered 
time out of mind; and that as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber room and elevated to its present situation 
by the squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of 
the family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on ail such 
subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into 
current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under 
this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that 
might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's 
parade^ of the vessels of the temple: "flagons, cans, cups, 
beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers"; the gorgeous utensils 
of good companionship that had gradually accumulated 
through many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before 
these stood the two yule candles, beaming like two stars of 
the first magnitude; other lights were distributed in branches, 
and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool 
beside the fireplace and twanging his instrument with a vast 
deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas board 
display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of counte- 
nances; those who were not handsome were at least happy; 
and happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. 
I always consider an old English family as well worth study- 



1. Belshazzar's parade. See Daniel v, 1 £f. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 303 

ing as a collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Diirer's^ 
prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired; much 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps 
it may be from having continually before their eyes those 
rows of old family portraits, with which the mansions of 
this country are stocked; certain it is, that the quaint fea- 
tures of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in 
these ancient lines; and I have traced an old family nose 
through a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed down 
from generation to generation, almost from the time of the 
Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the 
worthy company around me. Many of their faces had evi- 
dently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied 
by succeeding generations; and there was one little girl in 
particular, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose and 
an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the 
squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the 
very counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the 
court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded one 
of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if some- 
thing was expected; when suddenly the butler entered the 
hall with some degree of bustle. He was attended by a ser- 
vant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver 
dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with 
rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with 
great formality at the head of the table. The moment this 
pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a flour- 

1. Holbein . . . Durer. Hans Holbein (1497-1543) and Albrecht 
Dlirer (1471-1528) were both Germans. Holbein painted many portraits 
in England. 



304 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ish; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiv- 
ing a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the most comic 
gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as follows: 

Caput apri defero^ 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all sing merrily , 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared -to witness many of these little eccen- 
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine 
host, yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was 
introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from 
the conversation of the squire and the parson that it was 
meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head;^ a dish 

1. Caput apri defero, etc. The first two and the last lines of- this 
stanza are to be translated as follows. 

I bring the head of the boar, 
Giving praises unto the Lord 

Ye who are at the feast. 

2. boar's head. The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on 
Christmas Day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. 
I was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and 
as it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these 
grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedecked with bays and rosemary; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 

Caput apri defero, 

Reddens laudes Domino.; 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedecked with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 

Caput apri defero, etc., etc. [Author's Note.] 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 305 

formerly served up with much ceremony and the sound of 
minstrelsy and song at great tables on Christmas Day. "I 
like the old custom/' said the squire, "not merely because it 
is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed 
at the college at Oxford at which I was educated. When 
I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time 
when I was young and gamesome — and the noble old 
college hall — and my fellow-students loitering about in 
their black gowns; many of whom, poor lads, are now in 
their graves!" 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 
associations, and who was always more taken up with the 
text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of 
the carol, which he affirmed was different from that sung at 
college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a com- 
mentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry 
annotations; addressing himself at first to the company at 
large, but finding their attention gradually diverted to other 
talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an 
under voice to a fat-headed old gentleman next to him, who 
was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of 
turkey. 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of 
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
"ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; being, as he added, 
"the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of 
goodly presence and full of expectation." There were sev- 
eral dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently 
something traditional in their embellishments; but about 
which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I asked no 
questions. 



306 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently dec- 
orated with peacock's, feathers, in imitation of the tail of 
that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the 
table. This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, 
was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie^ was certainly the 
most authentical; but there had been such a mortality 
among the peacocks this season that he could not prevail 
upon himself to have one killed. 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he 
was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance, 
the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to 
see the respect shown to his whims by his children and rela- 
tives; who, indeed, entered readily into the fuir spirit of 
them, and seemed all well-versed in their parts; having 
doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, 
too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and 
other servants executed the duties assigned them, however 
eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look, having, for the 

1. peacock pie. The peacock was anciently in great demand for 
stately entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end 
of which the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the 
beak richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies 
were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant 
pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came 
the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, "by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and 
Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance 
with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous 
revels of the olden times: 

"Men may talk of country Christmases, 

Their thirty-pound buttered eggs, their pies of carps' tongues; 

Their pheasants drenched with ambergris; the carcases of three fat 
wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock." [Author's 
Note.] 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 307 

most part, been brought up in the household, and grown into 
keeping with the antiquated mansion and the humors of its 
lord, and most probably looked upon all his whimsical regu- 
lations as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he 
placed before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with 
acclamation, being the wassail bowl,^ so renowned in 
Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the 
squire himself; for it was a beverage in the skillful mixture 
of which he particularly prided himself; alleging that it was 
too abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an ordi- 
nary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well 
make the heart of a toper leap within him; being composed 
of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, 
with roasted apples bobbing about the surface. 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight as he stirred this mighty 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a 
merry Christmas to all present, he sent it^ brimming round 

1. wassail bowl. The wassail bowl was sometimes composed of 
ale instead of wine; with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted 
crabs [crab-apples]; in this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared 
in some old families, and round the hearths of substantial farmers at 
Christmas. It is also called "lamb's wool," and is celebrated by Her- 
rick in his "Twelfth Night": 

"Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger." [Author's Note.] 

2. he sent it. "The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave 
place to each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore 
with the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and 
then the chappell (chaplein) was to answer, with a song." — Archaeo- 
logia. [Author's Note.] 



308 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the board, for everyone to follow his example, according to 
the primitive style; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain of 
good feeling, where all hearts met together." 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest em- 
blem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather 
coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he 
raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon companion 
struck up an old wassail chanson.^ 

The brown bowle 2 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

FUng, 
Be as merry as a king. 
And sound a lusty laugh-a. 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon fam- 
ily topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, 
a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay 
widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirtation. 
This attack was commenced by the ladies; but it was con- 
tinued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentle- 
man next the parson with the persevering assiduity of a slow 
hound;" being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though 

1. wassail chanson, drinking song. The word wassail was origi- 
nally an old formula of greeting, "Wes hal," meaning "Be thou well." 
It was later used as a toast and from this passed to the general meaning 
of "festive drinking." Chanson is a French word meaning "song." 
2. The brown bowle, etc. From Poor Robin's Almanac. See note 1, 
page 269. 3. slow hound, the same as sleuth-hound; a bloodhound. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 309 

rather dull at starting game, are unrivaled for their talents 
in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conver- 
sation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same 
terms, winking hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave 
Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, 
indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old 
bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, 
in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
fine woman, and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner time passed away in this fiov*^ of innocent 
hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in its 
time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I 
doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine 
enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to 
diffuse pleasure around him; and how truly is a kind heart 
a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to 
freshen into smiles! The joyous disposition of the worthy 
squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy himself, and 
disposed to make all the world happy; and the little eccen- 
tricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, the sweet- 
ness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated; many good things were 
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but 
which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I 
cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, 
yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- 
duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs; 
but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meet- 
ing, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that 
where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. 



jlO THE SKETCH BOOK 

The squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a 
sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required some 
effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a 
man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the 
two college chums presented pictures of what men may be 
made by their different lots in life. The squire had left the 
university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the 
vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had 
flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor 
parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered away 
among dusty tomes in the silence and shadows of his study. , 
Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, 
feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire 
hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, 
whom they once met on the banks of the Isis,^ the old gentle- 
man made an "alphabet of faces, "^ which, as far as I could 
decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of 
laughter; indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman 
that took absolute offense at the imputed gallantries of his 
youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and 
louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as 
chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew; his old 
songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk 
maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about 
the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gath- 

1. the Isis. The upper part of the Thames is called the Isis. 2. al- 
phabet of faces, a series of grimaces. Several examples of this phrase 
in old authors are cited in Murray's New English Dictionary, under 
the word "alphabet." 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 311 

ered from an excellent black-letter work, entitled Cupid's 
Solicitor for Love, containing store of good advice for 
bachelors, and which he promised to lend me. The first verse 
was to this effect: 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller^ that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck 
in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part except- 
ing himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of 
good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and 
his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this 
juncture we were summoned to the drawing-room, and, I 
suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose jovial- 
ity seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up 
to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all 
kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, 
made its old walls ring with their merriment as they played 
at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of 
children, and particularly at this happy holiday season, and 
could not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing 
one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of 
blindman's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their 

1. Joe Miller was a comedian of the early eighteenth century. 
After his death a number of stories were collected and printed under 
his name. This collection was frequently revised and enlarged in 
succeeding editions. To tell a story out of Joe Miller's Jest Book was 
to tell any stale old story. 



312 THE SKETCH BOOK 

revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfill the office of that 
ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,^ was blinded in the 
midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him 
as the mock fairies about Falstaff;- pinching him, plucking 
at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One 
fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all 
in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 
half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
the chief tormentor ; and, from the slyness with which Master 
Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild 
little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking 
over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room I found the com- 
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was 
deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of 
some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from 
the library for his particular accommodation. From this 
venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure 
and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing 
out strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends 
of the surrounding country, with which he had become 
acquainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am 
half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself 
somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men as very apt to 
be who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part 
of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often 
filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us sev- 

1. Lord of Misrule. "At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's 
house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of 
merie disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman 
of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall." — Stowe. 
[Author's Note.] 2. mock fairies about Falstaff. See Merry Wives 
of Windsor, v, v. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 313 

eral anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry 
concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb 
by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the 
kind in that part of the country, it had always been regarded 
with feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. 
It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the. rounds of 
the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it thun- 
dered; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the 
churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the church, 
when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. 
It was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed 
by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the 
spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of 
gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the specter 
kept watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton in old 
times, who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, 
but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the 
marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on 
the pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some 
of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, 
there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy 
of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the church- 
yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- 
sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the 
hall, was thought by the servants to have something super- 
natural about it; for they remarked that in whatever part 
of the hall you went the eyes of the warrior were still fixed 
on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had 
been born and brought up in the family and was a great 
gossip among the maid servants, affirmed that in her young 
days she had often heard say that on Midsummer Eve, when 



314 THE SKETCH BOOK 

it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies 
become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to mount 
his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, 
down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on 
which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
itself; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed gates 
and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy 
maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, mak- 
ing himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these sup^stitions I found had been very much coun 
tenanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious him 
self, was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every 
goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, 
and held the porter's wife in high favor on account of her 
talent for the marvelous. He was himself a great reader of 
old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could 
not believe in them; for a superstitious person, he thought, 
must live in a kind of fairyland. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our 
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous 
sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something like 
the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small 
voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, 
and a train came trooping into the room that might almost 
have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. 
That indefatigable spirit. Master Simon, in the faithful dis- 
charge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea 
of a Christmas mummery or masking;^ and having called in 

1. masking. Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christ- 
mas in old times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor houses were 
often laid under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. 
I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben 
Jonson's Masque of Christmas. [Author's Note.] 



:i 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 315 

to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were 
equally ripe for anything that should occasion romping and 
merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old 
housekeeper had been consulted; the antique clothespresses 
and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up the relics of 
finery that had not seen the light for several generations ; the 
younger part of the company had been privately convened 
from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened 
out into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask. 

Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," 
quaintly appareled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very 
much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, 
and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and 
must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenant- 
ers.^ From under th's his nose curved boldly forth, flushed 
with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a 
December blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed 
romp, dished up as "Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable 
magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, 
and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin 
Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green,- and a foraging 
cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. 
The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as 
"Maid Marian." The rest of the train had been metamor- 
phosed in various ways; the girls trussed up in the finery of 
the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings 

1. the Covenanters, the supporters of Presbyterianism in Scotland 
during the period of the Puritan Revolution. 2. Kendal green was 
a cloth, so called because it was originally made at the town of 
Kendal, England. 



316 THE SKETCH BOOK 

bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad 
skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-buttoned wigs, to represent 
the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other 
worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was 
under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate char- 
acter of Misrule; and I observed that he exercised rather a 
mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages 
of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar 
and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory 
by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he 
walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling. Dame 
Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, 
which from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old 
family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join 
in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands 
and right and left; the Dark Ages were cutting pirouettes 
and rigadoons; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily 
down the middle through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, 
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing 
his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, not- 
withstanding that the latter was discoursing most authen- 
tically on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon,^ or 
peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived. 

1. dance of the Pavon. Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance 
called the Pavon, from pavo, a peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic 
dance; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed 
with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the 
peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the 
motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History 
of Music. [Author's Note.] 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 317 

For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the varied 
scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It 
was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospi- 
tality, breaking out from among the chills and glooms of 
winter, and old age throwing off his apathy and catching 
once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also 
an interest in the scene from the consideration that these 
fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this 
was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole 
of them was still punctiliously observed. There was a quaint- 
ness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar 
zest: it was suited to the time and place; and as the old 
manor house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed 
echoing back the joviality of long-departed years.^ 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it is time for 
me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions 
asked by my graver readers, ''To what purpose is all this — 
how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas! is 
there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the 
world? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens 
laboring for its improvement? It is so much pleasanter to 
please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than 
the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest 

1. departed years. At the time of the first publication of this 
paper, the picture of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was 
pronounced by some as out of date. The author had afterwards an 
opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs above described, 
existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, 
where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some 
notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn 'at Newstead 
Abbey. [Author's Note.] Newstead Abbey is printed in Irvi^ig's col- 
lected Works in the Crayon Miscellany. The remarks referred to are 
in the chapter of Newstead Abbey entitled Plough Monday. 



318 THE SKETCH BOOK 

deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? 
But in writing to amuse, if I fail the only evil is in my own 
disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, 
in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of 
care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if 
I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of 
misanthropy, prompt the benevolent view of human nature, 
and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow 
beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have 
written entirely in vain. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 

— I do walk 
Methinks like Guido Vaux,l with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow.2 

— Fletcher.^ 

I am somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of 
exploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These 
are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swal- 
lowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar; 
but deriving poetical and romantic interest from the com- 
monplace, prosaic world around them. I was struck with an 
instance of the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble 
into the city; for the city is only to be explored to advantage 
in summer time, when free from the smoke and fog and rain 
and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for some time 
against the current of population setting through Fleet 
Street. The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, and 
made me sensitive to ever}^ jar and jostle and discordant 
sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was get- 
ting out of humor with the bustling busy throng through 
w^hich I had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore 
my way through the crowd, plunged into a by-lane, and after 

1. Guido Vaux, or Guy Fawkes, was ohq of the plotters who at- 
tempted to blow up the English House of Lords with gunpowder on 
Nov. 5, 1605. Fawkes was discovered and seized as he went with a 
lantern to the cellar where the powder was concealed. The Gunpowder 
Plot was a device of the Roman Catholics in England to retaliate against 
oppressive measures of the government. See note 2, page 329. 2. Robin 
Goodfellow, the playful, tricksy spirit' of popular story; Puck. 3. 
Fletcher. See note 3, page 136. 

319 



320 THE SKETCH BOOK 

passing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged 
into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the center, 
overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by a 
fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A student with 
book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, 
partly meditating on the movements of two or three trim 
nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon an oasis 
amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the 
quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and re- 
freshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, 
to a very ancient chapel, with a low-browed Saxon portal of 
massive and rich architecture. The interior was circular and 
lofty and lighted from above. Around were monumental 
tombs of ancient date, on which were extended the marble 
effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly 
crossed upon the breast; others grasped the pommel of the 
sword, menacing hostility even in the tomb; while the 
crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who 
had been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars,^ 
strangely situated in the very center of sordid traffic; and I 
do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the 
world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway 
of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these 
shadowy sepulchers, where all is twilight, dust, and forget- 
fulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another 

1. Knights Templars, that is, knights of the Temple, were originally, 
in the twelfth century, crusading knights who went to Palestine to 
rescue the Temple from the hands of the Mohammedans. Their chapel 
and other buildings still stand in London, but are now occupied, as they 
have been for some five centuries, by students of the law. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 321 

of these relics of a "foregone world" locked up in the heart of 
the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull, 
monotonous streets, destitute of anything to strike the eye 
or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic 
gateway of moldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious 
quadrangle forming the courtyard of a stately Gothic pile, 
the portal of which stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity 
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting 
no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued 
on until I found myself in a great hall, with l©fty arched 
roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one 
end of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden 
settles on each side; at the other end was a raised platform, 
or dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of a 
man in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable 
gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and 
seclusion, and what gave it a myserious charm, was, that I 
had not met with a human being since I had passed the 
threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess 
of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of 
yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from 
panes of colored glass ; while an open casement let in the soft 
summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand and my 
arm on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie 
about what might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. 
It had evidently been of monastic origin; perhaps one of 
those collegiate establishments built of yore for the promo- 
tion of learning, where the patient monk, in the ample soli- 
tude of the cloister, added page to page and volume to 



122 THE SKETCH BOOK 

volume, emulating in the productions of his brain the mag- 
nitude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small paneled door 
in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a 
number of gray-headed old men clad in long, black cloaks 
came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner through 
the hall, without uttering a word, each turning a pale face 
on me as he passed, and disappearing through a door at the 
lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black 
cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this 
most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts 
of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were 
passing in review before me. Pleasing myself with such 
fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what 
I pictured to myself a realm of shadows existing in the very 
center of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts 
and corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice 
had many additions and dependencies, built at various times 
and in various styles; in one open space a number of boys, 
who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their 
sports; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray 
men in black mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, sometimes 
conversing in groups ; they appeared to be the pervading genii 
of the place. I now called to mind what I had read of cer- 
tain colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, 
necromancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were 
taught. Was this an establishment of the kind and were 
these black-cloaked old men really professors of the black 
art? 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye 



LONDON ANTIQUES 323 

glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange 
and uncouth objects: implements of savage warfare; strange 
idols and stuffed alligators; bottled serpents and monsters 
decorated the mantelpiece; while on the high tester of an 
old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on 
each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic cham- 
ber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, 
when I was startled at beholding a human countenance star- 
ing at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, 
shriveled old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, 
wiry, projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it 
were not a mummy curiousl}^ preserved, but it moved, and I 
saw that it was alive. It was another of those black-cloaked 
old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, his 
obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by which 
he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had 
come upon the arch mago,^ who ruled over this magical 
fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me 
to enter. I obeyed with singular hardihood, for how did I 
know whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose 
me into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the 
bottles on his mantelpiece? He proved, however, to be any- 
thing but a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled 
all the magic and mystery with which I had enveloped this 
antiquated pile and its no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the center of an 
ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed 
householders, with which was connected a school for a lim- 
ited number of boys. It was founded upwards of two cen- 

1. mago, magician. 



324 THE SKETCH BOOK 

turies since on an old monastic establishment, and retained 
somewhat of the conventual air and character. The shadowy 
line of old men in black mantles who had passed before 
me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into Magi, turned 
out to be the pensioners returning from morning service in 
the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I had 
made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of 
the place, and had decorated this final nestling-place of his 
old age with relics and rarities picked up in the course of his 
life. According to his own account he had been somewhat of 
a traveler ; having been once in France, and very near mak- 
ing a visit to Holland. He regretted not having visited the 
latter country, "as then he might have said he had been 
there." He was evidently a traveler of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical, too, in his notions; keeping aloof, 
as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief 
associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of 
both which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant , and 
a broken-down gentleman who had run through a fortune of 
forty thousand pounds, left him by his father, and ten thou- 
sand pounds, the marriage portion of his wife. Little Hallum 
seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as 
well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such enormous 
sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which 
I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter- 
house,^ originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, 
on the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, 

1. Charterhouse. The word Charterhouse is a corruption of the word 
Chartreuse, which in turn is a French form of the adjective Carthusian. 
The original foundation of the Charterhouse was a Carthusian monastery. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 325 

being one of those noble charities set on foot by individual 
munificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity 
of ancient times amidst the modem changes and innovations 
of London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen 
better days, are provided in their old age with food, cloth- 
ing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They 
dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall which had 
been the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the 
establishment is a school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speak- 
ing of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, 
"They are not to intermeddle with any business touching the 
affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of 
God, and take thankfully what is provided for them, without 
muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, 
long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in 
their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such 
as becomes hospital men to wear." "And in truth," adds 
Stow, "happy are they that are so taken from the cares and 
sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place as these 
old men are; having nothing to care for but the good of 
their souls, to serve God and to live in brotherly love." 

For the amusement of such as have been interested by the 
preceding sketch, taken dovv^n from my own observation, and 
who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of 
London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my 
hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig 
and a snuff-colored coat, with v/hom I became acquainted 
shortly after my visit to the Charterhouse. I confess I was 
a little dubious at first whether it was not one of those 
apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquiring travelers 



326 THE SKETCH BOOK 

like myself, and which have brought our general character 
for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making 
proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satis- 
factory assurances of the author's probity; and, indeed, have 
been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular 
account of the very interesting region in which he resides ; of 
which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 

What I write is most true ... I have a whole booke of cases 
lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients 
(within the hearing of Bow-bell^) would be out of charity with me, 

— Nashe. 

In the center of the great city of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and 
courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes 
by the name of ^'Little Britain." Christ Church School and 
St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west ; Smithfield 
and Long Lane on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm 
of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst 
the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from 
Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little 
territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of 
St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Pater- 
noster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down 
with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As 
London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the 
west, and trade, creeping on at their heels, took possession of 
their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became 
the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and 
prolific race of booksellers; these also gradually deserted it, 
and, emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, 

1. Bow-bell, is the bell of Bow Church, in the heart of London. Irv- 
ing refers to Bow Church a number of times as the center of Cockney- 
ism or London provincialism. To one familiar with London and with 
18th century English literature, these names of streets and places, 
which Irving here mentions, call up a host of interesting associations. 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK 

settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, 
where they continue to increase and multiply even at the 
present day. 

But, though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
bears traces of its former splendor. There are several houses 
ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently 
enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown 
birds, beasts, and fishes, and fruits and flowers which it 
would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in 
Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spacious 
and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days 
been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be 
found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery 
furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, 
in great rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted 
ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. 
The lanes and courts^ also contain many smaller houses, not 
on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, 
sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These 
have their gable ends to the street; great bow windows with 
diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low 
arched doorways. 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I 
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged 
in the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. 
My sitting room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small 
panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I 
have a particular respect for three or four high-backed claw- 
footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear 

1. lanes and courts. It is evident that the author of this interesting 
communication has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many 
of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 
[Author's Note.] 



LITTLE BRITAIN 329 

the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless 
figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They 
seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sov- 
ereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors; as 
I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the 
plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. 
The whole front of my sitting room is taken up with a bow 
window; on the panes of which are recorded the names of 
previous occupants for many generations, mingled with 
scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in 
characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol 
the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain who has 
long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am 
an idle personage with no apparent occupation, and pay my 
bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only inde- 
pendent gentleman of the neighborhood; and, being curious 
to learn the internal state of a comm^unity so apparently shut 
up within itself, I have managed to work m}^ way into all 
the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the 
city; the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment 
of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated 
folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many 
of the holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants 
most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday,^ hot-cross- 
buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they 
send love letters on Valentine's Day, bum the pope on the 
fifth of November," and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe 
at Christmas. Roast beef and plum pudding are also held 

1. pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, etc. Most of the customs men- 
tioned here still persist in England, though but few of them are known 
or are commonly practiced in this country. 2. the fifth of November 
was celebrated as Guy Fawkes Day. See note 1, page 319. 



330 THE SKETCH BOOK 

in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain 
their grounds as the only true English wines ; all others being 
considered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world, such as 
the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it 
tolls; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's 
clock ;^ the Monument;- the lions in the Tower ;^ and the 
wooden giants in Guildhall.* They still believe in dreams 
and fortune telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and- 
Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting 
stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They 
are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; 
and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a 
sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost 
stories current, particularly concerning the old mansion 
houses, in several of which it is said strange sights are some- 
times seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed 
wigs, hanging sleeves and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, 
hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down 
the great waste chambers on moonlight nights, and are sup- 
posed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their 
court dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One 
of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentle- 
man, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's 
shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and 

1. St. Dunstan's clock. The hours were struck on the clock of St. 
Dunstan's church by the wooden figures of two giants. 2. the Monu- 
ment. See note 2, page 180. 3. lions in the Tower. A royal men- 
agerie was formerly, but is no longer, kept in the Tower. The part in 
which it was kept is still known as the Lion's Tower. 4. giants in 
Guildhall. See note 2, page 179. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 331 

projections; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair 
of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, 
who consider him as a kind of conjurer because he has two 
or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop and several 
snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and 
newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming ac- 
counts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic 
eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the 
times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal 
out to his customers, with their doses ; and thus at the same 
time puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great 
believer in omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies of 
Robert Nixon^ and Mother Shipton^ by heart. No man can 
make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark 
day; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of 
his customers and disciples until they were nearly frightened 
out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend 
or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. 
There has been a saying current among the ancient sibyls 
who treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on 
the top of the Exchange' shook hands with the dragon on the 
top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. 
This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to 
pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the 
repairs of the cupola of the Exchange and the steeple of 
Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the 

1. Robert Nixon, who is supposed to have lived about the year 1620, 
was thought to have the gift of prophecy. His prognostications were 
gathered together and printed in 1714. 2. Mother Shipton. Mother 
Shipton's Prophecies are pretended prophecies published at various 
times in England since the seventeenth century. Mother Shipton her- 
self is probably a wholly mythical character. 3. the grasshopper on 
the top of the Exchange. The grasshopper was the crest of Sir Thomas 
Gresham, a London merchant who caused the Exchange to be built. 



332 THE SKETCH BOOK 

grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jowl, in the yard of his 
workshop. 

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go 
stargazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but 
here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under 
our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations 
of astrologers." Since these portentous weathercocks have 
thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already 
occurred. The good old king,^ notwithstanding that he had 
lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost; 
another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died 
suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered ; there had 
been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody 
scenes at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street; and, 
above all, the Queen had returned to England! All these 
sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, v/ith a mys- 
terious look, and a dismal shake of the head, and being taken 
with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors 
with stuffed sea monsters, bottled serpents, and his own 
visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spread 
great gloom through the minds of the people of Little Britain. 
They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, 
and observe that they never expected any good to come of 
taking down that steeple, which in old times told nothing but 

1. the good old king, etc. The death of George III and the acces- 
sion of George IV to the throne occurred in 1820. The deaths of the 
two royal dukes were matters of more importance a hundred years 
ago than they are now. The radical meetings were due to the 
unrest of the laboring classes during the hard times of 1819. In this 
year there were riots at Manchester in which five or six persons were 
killed. The Cato Street Conspiracy was an attempt to murder the 
British Cabinet in 1820. Queen Caroline returned to England in 1820. 
She had lived apart from her husband, George IV, for many years, 
and he refused to acknowledge her on her return. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 333 

glad tidings, as the history of Whittington^ and his cat bears 
witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bdlied 
mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he is 
a man of no little standing and importance ; and his renown 
extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto 
Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs 
of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half 
century, together with The Gentleman's Magazine,^ Rapin's^ 
History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is 
stored with invaluable maxims which have borne the test of 
time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that "it is 
a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, 
that anything can shake her ; and he has much to say on the 
subject of the national debt; which, somehow or other he 
proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He 
passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little 
Britain until of late years, when, having become rich and 
grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take 
his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made sev- 
eral excursions to Hampstead, Highgate,* and other neigh- 

1. Whittington. According to the story, Whittington, when a boy- 
apprentice, was prevented from running away from his master by the 
bells of Bow Church, which seemed to say: "Turn again, Whittington, 
thrice Lord Mayor of London." 2. The Gentleman's Magazine, 
founded by Edward Cave in London in 1731, was a journal of literary 
and general interest for the better class of readers. 3. Rapin*. Paul 
de Rapin (1661-1725), a Frenchman who spent the greater part of his 
life in England and Holland, published his History of England in 1723- 
1725. It was written in French but was soon translated into English 
and for a long time it was the standard English history. The English 
edition of 1743 has numerous interesting illustrations 4. Hampstead 
and Highgate are within an hour or two's journey of Little Britain and 
St. Bartholomew's. 



334 THE SKETCH BOOK 

boring towns where he has passed whole afternoons in look- 
ing back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and en- 
deavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not 
a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his 
hat as he passes; and he is considered quite a patron at the 
coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Church- 
yard. His family have been very urgent for him to make an 
expedition to Margate/ but he has great doubts of those 
new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself 
too advanced in life to undertake sea voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, 
and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of 
two rival "Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One 
held its meeting at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patron- 
ized by the cheesemonger; the other at the Cock and Crown, 
under the auspices of the apothecary — it is needless to say 
that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an 
evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable 
information as to the best mode of being buried, the com- 
parative merits of churchyards, together with divers hints 
on the subject of patent iron coffins. I have heard the ques- 
tion discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibit- 
ing the latter on account of their durability. The feuds 
occasioned by these societies have happily died of late; but 
they were for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, 
the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of 
funeral honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite 
a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good- 
humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week 

1. Margate, a popular seaside resort, is sixty-five miles from London, 
and as there were no railroads thither in Irving's day, the trip was 
one of some importance. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 335 

at a little old-fashioned hoiise^ kept by a jolly publican of the 
name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent 
half-moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old 
edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the 
thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s 
Entire/' "Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, 
Rum, and Compounds, etc." This indeed has beefi a temple 
of Bacchus and Momus^ from time immem.orial. It has 
always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history 
is tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much 
frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of 
Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the v/its of 
Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally 
prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his 
nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors 
Wxth his famous walking-staff. This however is considered 
as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the land- 
lord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by 
the name of "The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They 
abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories that are 
traditional in the place, and not to be met with in any other 
part of the metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker who 
is inimitable at a merry song; but the life of the club, and 
indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff him- 
self. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has 
inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which 
go with it from generation to generation as heirlooms. He 
is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red 
face, with a moist, merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair 
behind. At the opening of every club night he is called in to 

1. Bacchus and Momus. Bacchus was, in Roman mythology, the 
god of wine and feasting; Momus was the Greek god of mockery. 



336 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sing his "Confession of Faith," which is the famous old 
drinking troll from Gammer Gurton's Needle} He sings it,^ 
to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his 
father's lips; for it has been a standing favorite at the Half- 
Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written — ^nay, 
he affirms that his predecessors have often had the honor 
of singing^it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas 
mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory. 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then 
the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which 
issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is 
lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of 
gazing into a confectioner's window or snuffing up the steams 
of a cookshop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 

1. Gammer Gurton's Needle, one of the earliest of English com- 
edies. It was written about 1566. 2. He sings it. As mine host of 
the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar to the major- 
ity of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little 
Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, 
that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thump- 
ing on the table and clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate. 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. "^^f 

Though I go bare, take ye no care. 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within. 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 

Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 

Whether it be new or olde. 
I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 



LITTLE BRITALN 



337 



sensation in Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew's Fair/ 
and the Lord Mayor's Day.^ During the time of the fair, 
which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is 
nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The. 
late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irrup- 
tion of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of 
rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the 
taproom, morning, noon, and night; and at each window 
may be seen some group of boon companions, with half-shut 
eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, 
fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their 
liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which 
I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neigh- 



No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle. 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles. 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives. 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. [Author's Note.] 



Chorus. 



1. St. Bartholomew's Fair was a great annual fair held for many 
years in Smithfield, a market place adjoining St. Bartholomew's Church. 
2. Lord Mayor's Day. See note 1, page 160. 



338 THE SKETCH BOOK 

bors, is no proof against this Saturnalia.^ There is no such 
thing as keeping maidservants within doors. Their brains 
are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet 
.Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito, the Fire Eater; 
the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The children, 
too, lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt ginger- 
bread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian- din of drums, 
trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's Day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little 
Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth; his gilt coach 
with six horses as the summit of human splendor; and his 
procession, with all the sheriffs and aldermen in his train, as 
the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the 
idea, that the King himself dare not enter the city^ without 
first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar and asking permis- 
sion of the Lord Mayor; for if he did, heaven and earth! 
there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The 
man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the 
city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that 
offends against the dignity of the city; and then there is the 
little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at 

1. Saturnalia, a Roman feast in honor of Saturn, December 17. It 
was a time of general rejoicing and the term has become typical for 
unrestrained feasting or celebration. 2. Lilliputian. In Swift's Gul- 
liver's Travels, the Lilliputians were the diminutive inhabitants of a 
country called Lilliput. 3. enter the city. The city in London is 
technically the down town, business section. London was, and still is' 
made up of a group of different towns, each having its own governing 
body. Formerly Fleet Street was spanned by an arch, Temple Bar, 
which marked the entrance to the city, the domain of the Lord Mayor, 
and technically the King could pass Temple Bar only by permission of 
the Lord Mayor. Temple Bar was removed in 1878 because it obstructed 
traffic on one of London's busiest streets, but the old ceremony is kept 
up and the King still must receive formal permission before entering the 
city in his official capacity. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 339 

the window of the state coach and holds the city sword, as 
long as a pikestaff — Odd's blood! If he once draws that 
sword, Majesty itself is not safe! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, 
the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple 
Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes; and as to 
foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself 
into the Tower/ call in the train bands, and put the standing 
army of beefeaters^ under arms, and he may bid defiance to 
the world! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and 
its own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound 
heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased my- 
self with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles 
of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to 
renew the national character when it had run to waste and 
degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of har- 
mony that prevailed throughout it; for though there might 
now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the ad- 
herents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an 
occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were 
but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors 
met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and 
never abused each other except behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties^ at 
which I have been present, where we played at All-Fours, 
Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; 
and where we sometimes had a good old English country 
dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also 

1. the Tower. The Tower of London, an ancient fortress dating 
from the time of William the Conqueror, is still standing. 2. army of 
beefeaters. The beefeaters were guards stationed at the Tower. 3. 
junketing parties, feasting or excursion parties. 



340 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gypsy party 
to Epping Forest.^ It would have done any man's heart good 
to see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted 
on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring 
with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the 
merry undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would 
play at blindman's buff and hide-and-seek; and it was 
amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a 
fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the 
bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics; for 
they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets to 
pass away time in the country. They would now and then, 
to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes 
were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella 
maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending 
the subject, managed somehow or other to decide in favor of 
both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innova- 
tion creep in, factions arise, and families now and then 
spring up whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole 
system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tran- 
quillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its 
golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subver- 
sion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood. The Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop 

1. Epping Forest is eight or nine miles distant from London. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 341 

and put hk name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil 
hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being 
a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress at her grand 
annual ball, on which occasion she wore three towering 
ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it; 
they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life, 
set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the 
errand boy's hat, and have been the talk of the whole neigh- 
borhood ever since. They could no longer be induced to 
play at Pope-Joan or blindman's buff; they could endure 
no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of 
in Little Britain; and they took to reading novels, talking 
bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, 
too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy 
and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and 
he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about 
Kean,^ the opera, and the Edinburgh Review.^ 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but 
they had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's 
Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts toward the west. 
There were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance 
from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than 
three aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not 
to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an up- 
roar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable 
horses, and the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. 
The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their 
nightcaps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles 

1. Kean, Edmund (1787-1833), a celebrated English actor. 2. the 
Edinburgh Review, founded in 1802, though somewhat heavy, is one 
of the best of the English magazines. 



342 THE SKETCH BOOK 

rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies that 
kept a lookout from a house just opposite the retired butch- 
er's, and scanned and criticised everyone that knocked at 
the door. 

This dance v^^as a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say 
to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give 
little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, 
"quite," as she would say, "in a friendly way"; and it is 
equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in 
spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the good 
ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss 
Lambs, who would condescend to strum an Irish melody for 
them on the piano; and they would listen with wonderful in- 
terest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's 
family, of Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the 
rich heiresses of Crutched Friars;^ but then they relieved 
their consciences, and averted the reproaches of their con- 
federates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation 
everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their 
rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fash- 
ionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in 
spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old 
fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a 
shoe brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It 
was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as "the 
old gentleman," addressed him as "papa," in tones of infinite 
softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown 

1. Portsokenward .... Crutched Friars. These are not names 
made up by Irving, but are the names of actual places. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 343 

and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they 
might there was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy 
nature would break through all their glozings. He had a 
hearty vulgar good humor that was irrepressible. His very 
jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted 
in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two 
o'clock, and having a "bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of 
his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing 
cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes; and 
now and then throwing out a fling at "some people," and a 
hint about "quality binding." This both nettled and per- 
plexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with 
the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage 
of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up 
his afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's, to sit after 
dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he 
detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and dismal 
gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux, and talking 
and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every 
good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to at- 
tempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing- 
master to set up in the neighborhood; but the worthy folks 
of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor 
Gaul that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps 
and decamp with such precipitation that he absolutely for- 
got to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this 
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely 
the overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners 



344 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and their horror of innovation; and I applauded the silent 
contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart 
pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve 
to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold, 
and that my neighbors, after condemning, v/ere beginning to 
follow their example. I overheard my landlady importuning 
her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at French 
and music, and that they might take a few lessons in quad- 
rille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than 
five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, 
parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood ; 
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices; 
and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to 
the community. But unluckily a rival power arose. An 
opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure 
and a family of buxom daughters. The young ladies had 
long been repining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent 
father, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their 
ambition, being now no longer restrained, broke out into a 
blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the 
butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first 
start, had naturally an advantage of them in the fashionable 
career. They could speak a little bad French, play the 
piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; 
but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs 
appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters 
mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave 
a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand; and 
though they might not boast of as good company, yet they 
had double the number, and were twice as merry. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 34S 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two families. 
The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are 
entirely discarded; there is no such thing as getting up an 
honest country dance ; ^ and on my attempting to kiss a young 
lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly 
repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking 
vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most 
fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for 
the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the 
vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal 
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and 
what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, 
with all his talent at prognostics, to determine; though I 
apprehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of 
genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle, 
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only 
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in 
high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabi- 
net councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to 
agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed my- 
self most horribly with both parties, by abusing their oppo- 
nents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, 
which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my 
apprehension — if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a 
reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined! 

1. country dance, a dance, like the Virginia reel, in which a number 
of couples stand up in rows opposite each other. The more fashionable 
dances were the square dance (the quadrille, etc.), or the round dance 
(the waltz). 



346 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and 
am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city 
where old English manners are still kept up; where French 
is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken; and where there 
are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, 
I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an 
old house about my ears; bid a long, though a sorrowful, 
adieu to my present abode, and leave the rival factions of the 
Lambs and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of 
Little Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream ; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. 

— GarrickA 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling 
of something like independence and territorial consequence, 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, 
thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before 
an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may ; let kingdoms 
rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, 
he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. 
The armchair is his throne, the poker his scepter, and the 
little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. 
It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the 
uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out 
kindly on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way 
on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of 
husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. "Shall 
I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave 
the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a com- 
placent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse,^ at 
Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 

1. Garrick, David (1717-1779), the famous actor and friend of John- 
son and Goldsmith. 2. the Red Horse. American visitors to Stratford 
and the Red Horse Tavern are shown the chair in which Irving sat and 
the poker with which he stirred the fire on this night. 

347 



348 THE SKETCH BOOK 

church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the 
door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, 
inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I 
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. 
My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating 
my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, 
and putting the Stratford Guide Book under my arm as a 
pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamed all night of 
Shakespeare, the Jubilee,^ and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the 
middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly 
given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild 
air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life 
into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth 
into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and 
where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his 
father's craft of wool combing. It is a small, mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, 
which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. 
The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names 
and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, 
ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; and 
present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and 
universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red 
face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an 

1. Jubilee, the Stratford Jubilee, in honor of Shakespeare's memory, 
was held in 1769. Garrick was one of the chief participants and directors 
of the celebration. See page 352. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 349 

exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in 
exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated 
shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very 
matchlock v/ith which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his 
poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which 
proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ;i the 
sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical 
lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and 
Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also of 
Shakespeare's mulberry tree," which seems to have as extraor- 
dinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true 
cross; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of 
the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake- 
speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small, 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the 
slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of 
an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford 
dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of 
the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the 
custom of everyone that visits the house to sit ; whether this 
be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of 
the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact ; and 
mine hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid 
oak, such was the fervent ^eal of devotees that the chair had 
to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy 
of notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that 

1. Sir Walter Raleigh is said to have been the man who first intro- 
duced smoking into England. 2. mulberry tree. A mulberry tree, 
which stood before the house in which Shakespeare lived at Stratford, 
was cut down in 1758. Pieces of it were prized as souvenirs. 



350 THE SKETCH BOOK 

it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa 
Casa of Loretto/ or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; 
for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, 
yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the oldj 
chimney corner. 

I am alwa3^s of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs 
nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, 
and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would 
advise all travelers who travel for their gratification to be 
the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true ori 
false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of! 
them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is 
nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these mat- 
ters; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to 
believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from 
the poet, when, luckily, for my faith, she put into my hands; 
a play of her own composition, which set all belief in hen 
consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought! 
me to his grave. He lies juried in the chancel of the parish j 
church, a large and venerable pile, moldering with age, buti 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of theAvon, onj 
an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens 
from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and 
retired; the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their 
branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, thai 
boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in{ 

1. the Santa Casa at Loretto, traditionally said to be the house in 
which the Virgin was born, the tradition being that it was miracu- 
lously transported from Palestine to Italy. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 351 

summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of 
the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown 
with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk 
into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise 
tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built 
their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and 
keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sail- 
ing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key 
of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the 
use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cot- 
tage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; 
and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which 
pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low, 
white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, 
served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and 
earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken 
table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and 
prayer book, and the drawer contained the family library, 
composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, 
ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a bright warm- 
ing-pan hanging on one side of it and the old man's horn- 
handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, 
was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter, 
sewing — a pretty blue-eyed girl — and in the opposite corner 
was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name 
of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion 



352 THE SKETCH BOOK 

from childhood. They had played together in infancy; they 
had worked together in manhood; they were now tottering 
about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short 
time they will probably be buried together in the neighboring 
churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of 
existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; 
it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" of life that they are to 
be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing 
new to impart. The long interval during which Shakespeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow 
over his history; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely 
anything remains to his biographers but a scanty handful 
of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford 
Jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of 
the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, 
according to the sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively 
and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down 
Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
pocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as 
to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon dis- 
covered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as 
a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter having comparatively 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 353 

but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very 
outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
into different channels even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with 
carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 
the architecture and embellishments superior to those of 
most country churches. There are several ancient monu- 
ments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang 
funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from 
the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The 
place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the 
pointed windows; and the Avon, which runs at a short dis- 
tance from the walls, keeps up a low, perpetual murmur. A 
flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There 
are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by 
himself, and which have in them something extremely awful. 
If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about 
the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensi- 
bilities and thoughtful minds: 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered 
as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with 
a finely-arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it 
clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which 
he was as much characterized among his contemporaries as 
by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his 



354 THE SKETCH BOOK 

age at the time of his decease — fifty- three years; an untimely 
death for the world, for what fruit might not have been 
expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered 
as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing 
in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from 
the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which 
was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as 
some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the 
earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an 
arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. 
No one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains so 
awfully guarded by a malediction; and lest any of the idle 
or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted 
to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the 
place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aper- 
ture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look 
in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing 
but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the 
dust of Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daugh- . 
ter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, 
also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of 
usurious memory;^ on whom he is said to have written a 
ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but 
the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected 

1. John Combe, of usurious memory. John Combe was a resident 
of Stratford and a friend of Shakespeare's. At his death, in 1614, 
Combe left a small bequest in money to Shakespeare. Irving's charac- 
terization of Combe as "usurious" is probably due to the fact that he 
was involved in certain legal complications in connection with some 
Stratford real estate. But Shakespeare himself did not always keep 
clear of the law courts. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 355 

with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place; the whole 
pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer 
checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect con- 
fidence; other traces of him may be false or dubious, but 
here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod 
the sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of 
Shakespeare were moldering beneath my feet. It was a long 
time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place; 
and as I passed through the churchyard I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought 
from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucy's 
at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shake- 
speare, in company with some of the roisterers of Stratford, 
committed his youthful offense of deer-stealing. In this 
hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, 
and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all 
night in doleful captivity. When brought into the presence 
of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling 
and humiliating; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to pro- 
duce a rough pasquinade,^ which was affixed to the park 
gate at Charlecot. 

1. pasquinade. The following is the only stanza extant of this 
lampoon : — 

"A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scare crow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as soem volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
He thinks himself great; 
Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie as some volke miscalle it. 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it." [Author's Note.] 



356 THE SKETCH BOOK 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so 
incensed him that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put 
the severity of the laws in force against the riming deer- 
stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united puis- 
sance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He 
forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and 
his paternal trade; wandered away to London; became a 
hanger-on to the theaters; then an actor; and finally wrote 
for the stage; and thus, through the persecution of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool comber, and 
the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, 
for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord 
of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings; but in 
the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is 
said to be the original Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly 
fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like 
those of the knight, had white luces^ in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; 
but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural 
to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, 
had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temper- 
ament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When 
left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every- 
thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall 
turn out a great rogue or a great poet; and had not Shake- 
speare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
as daringly transcended all civil as he has all dramatic laws. 

1. white luces. The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon 
about Charlecot. [Author's Note.] 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 357 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an 
unbroken colt^ about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was 
to be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous 
characters; that he associated with all the madcaps of the 
place, and was one of those unlucky urchins at mention of 
whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will 
one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir 
Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish 
knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imagina- 
tion as something delightfully adventurous. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this whim- 

1. unbroken colt. A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and 
associates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, 
picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Pic- 
turesque Views on the Avon. 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town 
of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry 
used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to chal- 
lenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of 
drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to 
prove the strength of their heads; and in the number of the champions 
was Shakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink 
beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The 
chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a 
retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had 
scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced 
to lie down under a crabtree, where they passed the night. It is still 
standing, and goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard and proposed re- 
turning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having 
drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 

Haunted Hilbro', Himgry Grafton, 

Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 

Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets 
thus given them: the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill 
on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough; 
and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." [Author's Note.] 



358 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the 
bard. As the house stood but little more than three miles' 
distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian 
visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those 
scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest 
ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scen- 
ery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the tempera- 
ture of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects 
upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to wit- 
ness this first awakening of spring; to feel its warm breath 
stealing over the senses; to see the moist mellow earth be- 
ginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade; 
and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting 
buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snowdrop, that little borderer on the skirts of 
winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the 
small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new- 
dropped lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The spar- 
row twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges ; 
the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry 
strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of 
the meadow, towered away into the bright, fleecy cloud, 
pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little 
songster mounting up higher and higher, until his body was 
a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear 
was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's 
exquisite little song in Cymbeline: 

Hark! hark! the lark^ at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

1. Hark, hark the lark, etc. From Cymbeline, ii, iii, 21 ff. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 359 

And winking mary-buds^ begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin,^ 

My lady sweet arise! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground; 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every 
old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 
life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft^ into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular 
amusement in winter evenings "to sit round the fire, and tell 
merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, 
giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, 
and friars." 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glit- 
tering from among willows, which fringed its borders ; some- 
times disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; 
and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an 
azure sweep round a slope of meadowland. This beautiful 
bosom of country is called the "Vale of the Red Horse." A 
distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, 
whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner 
enchained in the silver links of the Avon. 

1. mary-buds, marigolds. 2. bin, is. 3. witchcraft. Scott, in 
his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of these fireside fancies. 
"And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, 
elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can 
sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, 
nymphes, changelings, incubus, Ro})in-good-fellow, the spoorne, the 
mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier-drake, the puckle, 
Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other 
bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadows." [Author's Note.] 



360 THE SKETCH BOOK 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and 
under hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrians, there being 
a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in 
these hospitable estates, in which everyone has a kind of 
property — at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in 
some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is 
more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks 
and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He 
breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under 
the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privi- 
lege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same 
time, the trouble of paying for it and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 
from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
through a long, lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the 
view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalking like a 
shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that 
has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the 
pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the 
evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a 
period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic 
grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity and 
proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family; 
and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, 
when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, 
that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but, 
thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building 
up an avenue of oaks." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVCN 361 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scen- 
ery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park 
of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, 
that some of Shakespeare's commentators have supposed he 
derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques/ and the en- 
chanting woodland pictures in As You Like It. It is in 
lonely wanderings through such scenes that the mind drinks 
deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely 
sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagina- 
tion kindles into reverie and rapture; vague but exquisite 
images and ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a 
mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It 
was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very 
trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the 
grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the 
poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song 
which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary: 

Under the greenwood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Jome hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But wdnter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- 
ing of brick, with stone quoins,- and is in the Gothic style of 
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gate- 

1. forest meditations of Jaques, in As You Like It, ii, v. The 
song is from the same source. 2. quoins, "corners," "angles." Also 
.spelled coin or coign. 



362 THE SKETCH BOOK 

way opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of 
the house, ornamented with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower 
beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbacan;^ 
being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers; though evi- 
dently for mere ornament instead of defense. The front of 
the house is completely in the old style; with stone-shafted 
casements, a great bow window of heavy stonework, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At 
each comer of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted 
by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down 
from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding 
or reposing upon its borders, and swans were sailing majes- 
tically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old 
mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium^ on Justice 
Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity 
of the latter: 

Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shalloiv. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John — marry, good air. 

What may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the 
days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stiHness and soli- 
tude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard was locked; there was no show of servants bustling 
about the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, 
being no longer harried by the mosstroopers^ of Stratford. 

1. barbacan. The French spelling of this word is barbacane, but in 
English it is now usually spelled barbican. 2. Falstaff's encomium, 
in Henry IV, Part 2, v, iii, 1 ff. 3. mosstroopers. Originally the 
word designated the predatory bands that infested the borders of Eng- 
land and Scotland, but became generalized to mean any outlaw or 
foot-pad. Cf. boQ-troiter, in a similar sense. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 363 

The only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white 
cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace toward the 
stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit 
to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw sus- 
pended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still 
inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that 
rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenu- 
ously manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to 
the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old 
housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness 
of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The 
greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to 
modern tastes and modes of living: there is a fine old oaken 
staircase; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient 
manor house, still retains much of the appearance it must 
have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched 
and lofty; and at one end is a gallery in which stands an 
organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which for- 
merly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made 
way for family portraits. There is a wide, hospitable fire- 
place, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, for- 
merly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the opposite 
side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow window, with stone 
shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are em- 
blazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy 
family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I 
was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white 
luces, by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identi- 
fied with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 
first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the justice 



364 THE SKETCH BOOK 

is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed 
his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt 
the offenses of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, 
and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats 
of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous 
indignation of Sir Thomas. 

Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-Chamber 
matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse 
Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram.^ 

Shallow. Aye, cousin Slender, and custalornm. 

Slender. Aye, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master 
parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, 
or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Aye, that I do; and have done any time these three 
hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all 
his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen 
white luces in their coat .... 

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot, 

■Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no 
fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the 
fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should 
end it! 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait, by Sir 
Peter Lely,- of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the 
time of Charles the Second. The old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this 
lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled 
away a great portion of the family estate, among which was 
that part of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades 
had killed the deer. The lands thus lost had not been en- 

1. coram, custalorum, etc. The italicized words in this passage of 
dialogue are perversions and misunderstandings of Latin legal phrases. 
2. Sir Peter Lely. See note 4, page 139. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 36S 

tirely regained by the family even at the present day. It is 
but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a 
surpassingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir 
Thomas Lucy and his family who inhabited the hall in the 
latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that 
it was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper 
assured me that it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the 
former being an effigy^ upon his tomb in the church of the 
neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively 
idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas 
is dressed in ruff and doublet; white shoes with roses in 
them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would 
say,- "a cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the 
opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, 
and the children have a most venerable stiffness and for- 

1. effigy. This effigy is in white marble, and represents the knight 
in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her 
tomb is the following inscription; which, if really composed by her 
husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow: 

"Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of Charle- 
cot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas 
Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of 
this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in 
ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time 
of her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never detected 
of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband 
most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust 
was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In govern- 
ing her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse 
with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. 
Greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of none unless of the envyous. 
When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue 
as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived 
most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best 
did knowe what hath byn written to be true. Thomas Lucye." [Au- 
thor's Note.] 2. as Master Slender would say. The words are not 
Slender's, but Simple's, in Merry Wives of Windsor, i, iv, 23. 



366 THE SKETCH BOOK 

mality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the 
family group; a hawk is seated on his perch in the fore- 
ground, and one of the children holds a bow; all intimating 
the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so indis- 
pensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.^ 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall 
had disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately 
elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of 
former days was wont to sway the scepter of empire over his 
rural domains; and in which it might be presumed the 
redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the 
recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to 
deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself 
with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the 
unlucky bard's examination on the morning after his cap- 
tivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, 
surrounded by his bodyguard of butler, pages, and blue- 
coated serving-men, with their badges; while the luckless 
culprit was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody 
of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of 
curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors; 
while from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned 

1. gentleman in those days. Bishop Earle, speaking of the country 
gentleman of his time, observes, "his housekeeping is seen much in the 
different families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels; 
and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk 
he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to 
seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." 
And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "he kept all 
sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had 
hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was 
commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, 
spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some 
of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." [Author's Note.] John 
Earle (1601-16G5), was the author of Microcosmographie (1628), a book 
of character. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 367 

gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that 
pity "that dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought 
that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief author- 
ity of a country squire and the sport of rustic boors, was 
soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of all 
tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind, and was 
to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a 
lampoon! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a 
last year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of cara- 
ways"; but I had already spent so much of the day in my 
ramblings that I was obliged to give up any further investi- 
gations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by the 
civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would 
take some refreshment; an instance of good old hospitality 
which, I grieve to say, we castle hunters seldom meet with in 
modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the pres- 
ent representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; 
for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shal- 
low importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing 
instances to Falstaff. 

By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away tonight. ... I will 
not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be 
admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused 
. . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a 
joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William 
Cook. 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Everything brought them as it were 



368 THE SKETCH BOOK 

before my eyes; and as the door of the dining room opened 
I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence^ 
quavering forth his favorite ditty: 

'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrovetide! 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic 
of his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things 
and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn 
this "working-day world"^ into a perfect fairyland. He is 
indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon 
the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under 
the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all 
day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape 
through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with 
the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied 
beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic 
power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had 
heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the 
fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the 
woodlands; and, above all, had been once more present in 
spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from 
the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slen- 
der and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and 
blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities 
of life with innocent illusions; who has spread exquisite and 
unbought pleasures in my checkered path; and beguiled my 
spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful 
sympathies of social life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 

1. Master Silence. See Henry IV, Part 2, v, iii, 37. 2. working- 
day world. From As You Like It, i, iii, 12. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 369 

paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed 
vaults. What honor could his name have derived from being 
mingled, in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and es- 
cutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What 
would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, 
compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in 
beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicit ude 
about the grave may be but the offspring of an over-wrought 
sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and 
prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled 
with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, 
no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in 
his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in 
peace and honor among his kindred and his early friends. 
And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him 
that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as 
does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the 
bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How w^ould it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he 
have foreseen that before many years he should return to it 
covered with renown ; that his name should become the boast 
and glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be reli- 
giously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its 
lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful con- 
templation, should one day become the beacon, towering 
amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of 
every nation to his tomb! 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin 
hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if he ever came cold and 
naked and he clothed him not. 

— Speech of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits of the 
North American savage, taken in connection with the scenery 
over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, bound- 
less forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to 
my mind, wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed 
for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature 
is stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to grapple with diffi- 
culties, and to support privations. There seems but little 
soil in his heart for the support of the kindly virtues; and 
yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through 
that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock up 
his character from casual observation, we should find him 
linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of those 
sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of Amer- 
ica, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged 
by the white men. They have been dispossessed of their 
hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton 
warfare; and their characters have been traduced by bigoted 
and interested writers. The colonist often treated them like 
beasts of the forest; and the author has endeavored to justify 
him in his outrages. The former found it easier to exter- 
minate than to civilize; the latter to vilify than to discrim- 
inate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed 
sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both; and thus the 

370 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 371 

poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, 
not because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly ap- 
preciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has 
too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been 
regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a 
question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly 
wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he 
is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be expected 
from him when he feels the sting of the reptile and is con- 
scious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist 
in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned 
societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
to investigate and record the real characters and manners of 
the Indian tribes; the American government, too, has wisely 
and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for- 
bearing spirit toward them, and to protect them^ from fraud 
and injustice. The current opinion of the Indian character, 
however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes 
which infest the frontiers and hang on the skirts of the set- 
tlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate 
beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society with- 
out being benefited by its civilization. That proud inde- 
pendence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has 
been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. 
Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferi- 

1. protect them. The American government has been indefatigable 
in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to intro- 
duce among them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowl- 
edge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase 
of land from them by individuals is permitted; nor is any person allowed 
to receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of 
government. These precautions are strictly enforced. [Author's Note.] 



372 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the 
superior knowledge and power of their enlightened neighbors. 
Society has advanced upon them like one of those withering 
airs that will sometimes breed desolation over a whole region 
of fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their 
diseases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the 
low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand 
superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of 
mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the 
chase, who fly from the sound of the ax and the smoke of the 
settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests 
and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the 
Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants 
of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of 
the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vagabond 
existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker 
of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes the"r spirits 
and blights every free and noble quality of their natures. 
They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusil- 
lanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settlements, 
among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, 
which only render them sensible of the comparative wretch- 
edness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample 
board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the ban- 
quet. Plenty revels over the fields; but they are starving in 
the midst of its abundance. The whole wflderness has blos- 
somed into a garden; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. 
How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil! Their wants were few, and the means of 
gratification within their reach. They saw everyone around 
them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, 
feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude gar- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 373 

ments. No roof then rose but was open to the homeless 
stranger; no smoke curled among the trees but he vv^as wel- 
come to sit down by its fire, and join the hunter in his repast. 
"For," says an old historian of New England, "their life is so 
void of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use 
of those things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein 
so compassionate that rather than one should starve through 
want, they would starve all; thus they pass their time 
merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were 
the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive 
natures; they resembled those wild plants which thrive best 
in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of 
cultivation and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exag- 
geration, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. 
They have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum- 
stances in which the Indians have been placed, and the 
peculiar principles under which they have been educated. 
No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His 
whole conduct is regulated according to some general max- 
ims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that 
govern him are, to be sure, but few; but then he conforms 
to them all; the white man abounds in laws of religion, 
morals, and manners, but how many does he violate? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is 
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness 
with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly 
fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the 
Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppres- 
sive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with that con- 



374 THE SKETCH BOOK 

fidence and frankness which are indispensable to real friend- 
ship; nor is sufficient caution observed not to offend against 
those feelings of pride or superstition, which often prompt 
the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of 
interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. 
His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide a surface as 
those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper 
channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all 
directed toward fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted on 
them are proportionately severe, and furnish motives of hos- 
tility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a 
community is also limited in number and forms one great 
patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an 
individual is the injury of the whole; and the sentiment of 
vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. One council 
fire is. sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan 
of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. 
Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the minds of 
the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and 
they are wrought up to a kind of religious desperation by the 
visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in 
an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. • The 
planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the 
dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the 
sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been dec- 
orated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence which 
they entertain for the sepulchers of their kindred. Tribes 
that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their 
ancestors, when by chance they have been traveling in the 
vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, 
and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 375' 

the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in 
woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently depos- 
ited; and there have passed hours in silent meditation. In- 
fluenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the sachem, whose 
mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together, 
and addressed them in the following beautifully s'mple and 
pathetic harangue; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, 
and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage: 

"When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as 
my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast 
closed methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was 
much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit 
cried aloud, 'Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the 
breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee 
warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge 
of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a 
despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable 
customs? See, now, the sachem's grave lies like the com- 
mon people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth 
complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people 
who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I 
shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, 
the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to 
speak, began to get some strength, and recollect my spirits 
that were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and 
assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to 
show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been 
attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep 
and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian char- 
acter and customs prevents our properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is 



376 THE SKETCH BOOK 

their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly 
in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though 
sometimes called nations, were never so formidable in their 
numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly 
felt ; this was particularly the case when they had frequently 
been engaged in warfare; and many an instance occurs in 
Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable 
to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away by the 
capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There 
was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merci- 
less; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide 
for future security. The Indians had also the superstitious 
belief, frequent among barbarous nations and prevalent also 
among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had 
fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. 
The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are 
adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are 
treated with the confidence and affection of relatives and 
friends ; nay, so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, 
that when the alternative is offered them, they will often 
prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather than 
return to the home and the friends of their youth. 

The cruejjty of the Indians toward their prisoners has been 
heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was 
formerly a compliance with policy and superstition has been 
exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot 
but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their 
ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the 
gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, 
smarting with injuries and indignities which they have indi- 
vidually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair 
by the wide-spreading desolation and the overwhelming ruin 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 377 

of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set 
them an example of violence by burning their villages and 
laying waste their slender means of subsistence ; and yet they 
wonder that savages do not show moderation and mag- 
nanimity toward those who have left them nothing but mere 
existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treach- 
erous, because they use stratagem in warfare in preference 
to open force; but in this they are fully justified by their 
rude code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is 
praiseworthy; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to 
lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe; he tri- 
umphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has 
been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, 
man is naturally more prone to subtlety than open valor, 
owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other 
animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of de- 
fense: with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons; but 
man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his 
encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to 
stratagem; and when he perversely turns his hostility against 
his fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of 
warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our 
enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and this of course 
is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage 
which induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence and 
to rush in the face of certain danger is the offspring of 
society and produced by education. It is honorable, because 
it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive 
repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal 
ease and security which society has condemned as ignoble. 



378 THE SKETCH BOOK 

It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the 
dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an| 
evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been cher-^ 
ished and stimulated also by various means. It has been the 
theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of 
fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober gravity 
of narration and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody 
in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been 
its reward ; monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill 
and opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate 
a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially ex- 
cited, courage has arisen to an extraordinary and factitious 
degree of heroism; and arrayed in all the glorious "pomp and 
circumstance of war,"^ this turbulent quality has even been 
able to eclipse many of those quiet but invaluable virtues 
which silently ennoble the- human character and swell the 
tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of dan- 
ger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition 
of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. 
Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature; or rather 
seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest 
to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode 
of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared 1 
for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the 
ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of i 
ocean; as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and 
wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air, ! 
so the Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, 
through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expedi- 

1. pomp and circumstance of war. From Othello iii, iii, 354. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 379 

tions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of 
the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He tra- 
verses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, 
of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those 
great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings. In 
his light canoe of bark he sports like a feather on their 
waves, and darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the 
roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched 
from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the 
hardships and dangers of the chase; he wraps himself in the 
spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps 
among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian 
in his lofty contempt of death and the fortitude with which 
he sustains its crudest infliction. Indeed we here behold 
him rising superior to the white man, in consequence of his 
peculiar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at 
the cannon's mouth; the former calmly contemplates its 
approach, and triumphantly endures it amidst the varied 
torments of surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of 
fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors and 
provoking their ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring 
flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the 
sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defi- 
ance of an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo- 
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate 
natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through 
which throw a degree of melancholy luster on their memories. 
Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude annals 
of the eastern provinces which, though recorded with the 



380 THE SKETCH BOOK 

coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves, 
and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy when 
prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried 
into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks 
from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In 
one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the 
night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the 
miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to 
escape, "all being despatched and ended in the course of an 
hour." After a series of similar transactions, "our soldiers," 
as the historian piously observes, "being resolved by God's 
assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy 
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses and 
pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant band, the 
sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and 
children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair, 
with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their 
tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of 
their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of 
an insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal 
retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, 
their enemy "plied them with shot all the time, by which 
means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the 
darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few 
broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods; 
"the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were! 
killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in 
their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 381 

through or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When 
the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless 
spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, "saw 
several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they 
discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bul- 
lets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under the 
boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that 
were found dead, many more were killed and sunk into the 
mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe." 

Can an3'one read this plain unvarnished tale without 
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the lofti- 
ness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self- 
taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feel- 
ings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city 
of Rome,^ they found the senators clothed in their robes and 
seated with stern tranquillity in their curule chairs; in this 
manner they suffered death without resistance or even sup- 
plication. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble 
and magnanimous; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as 
obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the dupes of show 
and circumstance! How different is virtue, clothed in pur- 
ple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, 
and perishing obscurely in a wilderness! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that 
sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces 
remain of them in the thickly-settled states of New England, 
excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a 
stream. And such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those 
other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally 

1. When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome. The Gauls entered 
Rome under their leader Brennus in 390 B.C. 



382 THE SKETCH BOOK 

been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of 
white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that 
their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which 
still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior and the 
tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of 
those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Con- 
necticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson; 
of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of 
the Susquehanna; and of those various nations that flour- 
ished about the Potomac and the Rappahannock, and that! 
peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They 
will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth; theirt 
very history will be lost in f orgetf ulness ; and "the places 
that now know them^ will know them no more forever." Or 
if. perchance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, 
it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in 
imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs^ 
and silvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon 
the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness; should he 
tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from 
their native abodes and the sepulchers of their fathers^ 
hunted like wild beasts about the earth and sent down with 
violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn 
with horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with 
indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. "We are 
driven back," said an old warrior, "until we can retreat no 
farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, oui 
fires are nearly extinguished; a little longer, and the white 
man will cease to persecute us — tor we shall cease to exist!'' 

1. the places that now know them, etc., probably an imperfeci 
recollection of Job vii, 10: xx, 9. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look; 
A soul that pity touched but never shook; 
Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and, ill to brook, 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

— Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated 
of the discovery and settlement of America, have not given 
us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable 
characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anec- 
dotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and inter- 
est; they furnish us with nearer glinyDses of human nature, 
and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state 
and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the 
charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unex- 
plored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the 
native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those gen- 
erous and romantic qualities which have been artificially 
cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood 
and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost 
the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of 
his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The 
bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, 
or softened down by the leveling influence of what is termed 
good breeding; and he practices so many petty deceptions, 
and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of 

383 



384 THE SKETCH BOOK 

popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from 
his artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free 
from the restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in 
a great degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the 
impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; 
and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, 
grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where 
every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and 
where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet 
surface ; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness 
and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the 
glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a vol- 
ume of early colonial history wherein are recorded, with 
great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians and their wars 
with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive 
even from these partial narratives how the footsteps of 
civilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines; 
how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust 
of conquest ; how merciless and exterminating was their war- 
fare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intel- 
lectual beings were hunted from the earth, how many brave 
and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, were broken 
down and trampled in the dust! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian war- 
rior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts 
and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a num- 
ber of contemporary sachems who reigned over the Pequods, 
the Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern 
tribes at the time of the first settlement of New England; 
a band of native untaught heroes, who made the most gen- i 
erous struggle of which human nature is capable; fighting 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 385 

to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a 
hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age 
of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fic- 
tion, they have left scarcely ^y authentic traces on the page 
of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim 
twilight of tradition.^ 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New 
World from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situa- 
tion was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few 
in number, and that number rapidly perishing away through 
sickness and hardships; surrounded by a howling wilderness 
and savage tribes; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic 
winter and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate, their 
minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- 
served them from sinking into despondency but the strong 
excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation 
they were visited by Massasoit, chief sagamore of the Wam- 
panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of 
country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number 
of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into 
which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for 
them a generous friendship, and extended toward them the 
rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring 
to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere 
handful of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace 
and amity, sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to 
secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. Whatever 
may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity 
and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. 

1. twilight of tradition. While correcting the proof sheet.s of this 
article, the author is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly- 
finished an heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. [Author's 
Note.] 



386 THE SKETCH BOOK 

He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white 
men; suffering them to extend their possessions and to 
strengthen themselves in the land, and betraying no jealousy 
of their increasing power and |yosperity. Shortly before his 
death he came once more to New Plymouth, with his son 
Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of 
peace and of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of 
his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; 
and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to 
draw off his people from their ancient faith; but, finding 
the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he 
mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his 
life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they 
had been named by the English), to the residence of a prin- 
cipal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence, 
and entreating that the same love and amity which had 
existed between the white men and himself might be con- 
tinued afterwards with his children. The good old sachem 
died in peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before 
sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to 
experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his 
hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dic- 
tatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation; 
and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with 
the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their 
hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narragansets to 
rise against the English and drive them from the land. It is 
impossible to say v/hether this accusation was warranted by 
facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 3S7 

however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the 
settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of 
the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and 
inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They 
despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to 
bring him before their courts. He was traced to his wood- 
land haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was 
reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after the 
toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the 
outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the 
irascible feelings of this proud savage as to throw him into 
a raging fever. He was permitted to return home on con- 
dition of sending his son as a pledge for his reappearance; 
but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he had 
reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded 
spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers on account of his 
lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his 
well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an 
object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was ac- 
cused of having always cherished a secret and implacable 
hostility toward the whites. Such may very probably, and 
very naturally, have been the case. He considered them as 
originally but mere intruders into the country, who had pre- 
sumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influence 
baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his country- 
men melting before them from the face of the earth; their 
territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becom- 
ing feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the 
soil was originally purchased by the settlers; but who does 
not know the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods 



388 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of colonization? The Europeans always made thrifty bar- 
gains through their superior adroitness in traffic; and they 
gained vast accessions of territory by easily provoked hos- 
tilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into 
the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually 
and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he 
judges; and it was enough for Philip to know that before the 
intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the 
soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land 
of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- 
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his 
brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the con- 
tract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years 
at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount 
Hope,^ the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, 
however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began 
to acquire form and substance ; and he was at length charged 
with attempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to rise 
at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke 
of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to 
assign the proper credit due to these early accusations 
against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion 
and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, 
that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Inform- 
ers abounded where talebearing met with countenance and 
reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its suc- 
cess was certain and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natu- 
ral cunning had been quickened by a partial education which 

]. Mount Hope, now Bristol, Rhode Island, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 389 

he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith 
and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that 
evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for 
some time as Philip's confidential secretary and counselor, 
and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, how- 
ever, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his 
patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the whites ; 
and, in order to gain their favor, charged his former bene- 
factor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous investi- 
gation took place. Philip and several of his subjects sub- 
mitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. 
The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract ; they 
had previously determined that Philip was a dangerous 
neighbor; they had publicly evinced their distrust, and had 
done enough to insure his hostility; according, therefore, to 
the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction 
had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the 
treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead 
in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. 
Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counselor of 
Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of 
one very questionable witness, were condemned and executed 
as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punish- 
ment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the 
passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his 
very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he 
determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the 
white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted 
brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a further warn- 
ing in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great sachem of 
the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers be- 



390 THE SKETCH BOOK " 

fore a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a 
charge of conspiracy and receiving assurances of amity, had 
been perfidiously despatched at their instigation. Philip, 
therefore, gathered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all 
strangers that he could to join his cause; sent the women and 
children to the Narragansets for safety; and wherever he 
appeared, was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. 
The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mis- 
chievous, and committed various petty depredations. In 
one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a 
settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians 
pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm 
of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times 
we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the 
public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the 
wildness of their situation among trackless forests and savage 
tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and 
had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of 
witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to a 
belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians 
were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn- 
ings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect 
form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, 
which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a '^prodigious 
apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in 
their neighborhood, "was heard^ the report of a great piece 
of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable 

1. was heard, etc. From a History of the War with the Indians, by 
Increase Mather (1639-1723), a New England preacher, author, and 
president of Harvard College. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 391 

echo." Others were alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning 
by the discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to 
whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the 
air, seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied 
that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and 
certain monstrous births, which took place about the time, 
filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebod- 
ings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena: to the northern lights which 
occur vividly in those latitudes; the meteors which explode 
in the air; the casual rushing of a blast through the top 
branches of the forest; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted 
rocks; and to those uncouth sounds and echoes which will 
sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound 
stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled 
some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated 
by the love of the marvelous, and listened to with that avidity 
with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. 
The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and 
the grave record made of them by one of the learned men 
of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often 
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. 
On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior 
skill and success; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and 
a disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists: on the 
part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men 
fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace 
but humiliation, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indigna- 
tion on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable. 



392 THE SKETCH BOOK 

whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atroc- 
ities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer arud a 
traitor, without considering that he was a true-born prince, 
gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the 
wrongs of his family, to retrieve the tottering power of his 
line, and to deliver his native land from the oppression of 
usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, 
had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been 
overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually 
broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual 
exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the 
military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, 
in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been 
given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him display- 
ing a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt of 
suffering and hardship, and an unconquerable resolution 
that command our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 
forests that skirted the settlements and were almost imper- 
vious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he 
gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating its 
stores of mischief in the bosom of the thundercloud, and 
would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, 
carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were ! 
now and then indications of these impending ravages that 
filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. 
The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the 
solitary woodland where there was known to be no white 
man; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 393 

would sometimes return home wounded ; or an Indian or two 
would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and sud- 
denly disappearing, as the lightning will sometimes be seen 
playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing 
up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the 
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from 
their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to 
all search or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far dis- 
tant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strong- 
holds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in 
some parts of New England, composed of loose bogs of deep 
black mud, perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, 
the shattered and moldering trunks of fallen trees, over- 
shadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing 
and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered them 
almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian 
could thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into 
one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip 
once driven with a band of his followers. The English did 
not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark 
and frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and 
miry pits or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore 
invested the entrance to the Neck, and began to build a fort 
with the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his 
warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea 
in the dead of the night, leaving the women and children be- 
hind, and escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames 
of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck 
country, and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehen- 
sion. The m.ystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated 



394 THE SKETCH BOOK 

his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness, 
whose coming none could foresee, and against which none 
knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded 
with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of 
ubiquity, for in whatever part of the widely extended fron- 
tier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said 
to be its leader. Many superstitious notions also were circu- 
lated concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, 
and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess 
whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and 
incantations. This indeed was frequently the case with 
Indian chiefs, either through their own credulity or to act 
upon that of their followers ; and the influence of the prophet 
and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully 
evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, 
his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had 
been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the 
whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a 
faithful friend in Canonchet, chief sachem of all the Narra- 
gansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great 
sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable ac- 
quittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to 
death at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. "He was 
the heir," says the old chronicler, "of all his father's pride 
and insolence, as well as of his malice toward the English"; 
he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the 
legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had forborne 
to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received 
Philip and his broken forces with open arms ; and gave them 
the most generous countenance and support. This at once 
drew upon him the hostility of the English ; and it was deter- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 395 

mined to strike a signal blow that should involve both the 
sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore, 
gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Con- 
necticut, and was sent into the Narraganset country in the 
depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless 
could be traversed with comparative facility, and would no 
longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, 
the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress; 
where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their 
forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, 
was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or 
six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with a 
degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usu- 
ally displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the 
martial genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultu- 
ous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and 
several of their bravest officers were shot down in the act of 
storming the fortress, sword in hand. The assault was re- 
newed with greater success. A lodgment was effected. The 
Indians were driven from one post to another. They dis- 
puted their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of 
despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; and after 
a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a hand- 
ful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort and took 
refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole 
was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women, and the 



396 THE SKETCH BOOK 

children perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame 
even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods re- 
sounded with the yells of rage and despair uttered by the 
fugitive warriors as they beheld the destruction of their 
dv/ellings and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and 
offspring. ''The burning of the wigwams/'^ says a con- 
temporary writer, ''the shrieks and cries of the women and 
children, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most 
horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of 
the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, "they were 
in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, 
whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with 
humanity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel." 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
of particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the 
noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which 
he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered 
on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and de- 
clared that "he would fight it out to the last man, rather than 
become a servant to the English." His home being de- 
stroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by the incur- 
sions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander away to 
the banks of the Connecticut, where he formed a rallying 
point to the whole body of western Indians and laid waste 
several of the English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant 

1. The burning of the wigwams, etc. Quoted from an MS. of the 
Rev. W. Ruggles. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 397 

for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adven- 
turers had passed safely through the Pequod country, and 
were in the center of the Narraganset, resting at some wig- 
wams near Pawtucket River, when an alarm was given of an 
approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the 
time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the top of a 
neighboring hill to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. 
He attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and 
hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat 
and belt of peag,^ by which his enemies knew him to be 
Canonchet and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This acci- 
dent so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards con- 
fessed, ''his heart and his bowels turned within him, and he 
became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved that, being seized by a 
Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made 
no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and bold- 
ness of heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride 
of his spirit arose within him; and from that moment, we 

1. peag, a kind of Indian money, made of polished shells strung 
together: wampum. 



398 THE SKETCH BOOK 

find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but re- 
peated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being 
questioned by one of the English who first came up with him, 
and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud- 
hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youth- 
ful countenance, replied, "You are a child — you cannot un- 
derstand matters of war — let your brother or your chief 
come — him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he 
rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals 
of the kind to the great body of his subjects, saying, that he 
knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with 
his breach of faith toward the whites, his boast that he 
would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the paring of a 
Wampanoag's nail, and his threat that he would burn the 
English alive in their houses, he disdained to justify himself, 
haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war 
as himself, and "he desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the 
generous and the brave; but Canonchet was an Indian, a 
being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, 
religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. The last 
words of him that are recorded are worthy the greatness of 
his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he 
observed "that he liked it well, for he should die before his 
heart was soft, or he had spoken anything unworthy of him- 
self." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he 
was shot at Stoningham by three young sachems of his own 
rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 399 

Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war by 
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms; but though possessed 
of the native talents of a statesman his arts were counter- 
acted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the 
terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of 
the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw him- 
self daily stripped of power, and h!s ranks rapidly thinning 
around him. Some were suborned by the whites; others fell 
victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by 
which they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his 
chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes; his 
uncle was shot down by his side; his sister was carried into 
captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled 
to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the 
enem.y. "His ruin," says the historian, "being thus gradually 
carried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented 
thereby; being himself made acquainted with the sense and 
experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family 
relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts before 
his own life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes his own followers 
began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they 
might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a 
number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, 
an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and con- 
federate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 
Wetamoe was among them at the time, and attempted to 
make her escape by crossing a neighboring river. Either ex- 
hausted by swimming, or starved by cold and hunger, she was 
found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution 



400 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ceased not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the 
wretched, where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, 
was no protection to this outcast female, whose great crime 
was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her 
corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance; 
the head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and 
was thus exposed at Taunton to the view of her captive sub- 
jects. They immediately recognized the features of their 
unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous 
spectacle that we are told they broke forth into the "most 
horrible and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated mis- 
eries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery 
of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to 
despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, 
nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope 
was broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he : 
looked around, and all was danger and darkness; there was > 
no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. 
With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to 
his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to 
the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his 
fathers. Here he lurked about like a specter among the 
scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, 
of family and friend. There needs no better picture of his 
destitute and piteous situation than that furnished by the: 
homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the 
feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he 
reviles. "Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having 
been hunted by the English forces through the woods above 
a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to 
his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few 



'- PHILIP OF POKANOKET 401 

of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison 
to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine 
permission to execute vengeance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair a sullen 
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our- 
selves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in 
silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sub- 
limity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. 
Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not 
humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath dis- 
aster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the 
last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and sub- 
dued by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very 
idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote 
to death one of his followers who proposed an expedient of 
peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in 
revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white 
men and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp 
where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. 
Before he was aware of their approach they had begun to 
surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest 
followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he 
rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt 
to escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado 
Indian of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King 
Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored 
when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced 
anecdotes furnished us by his enemies we may perceive in 
them traces of amiable and lofty character sufficient to 
awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. 
We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious 



402 THE SKETCH BOOK 

passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feel- 
ings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the 
generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his "be- 
loved wife and only son" are mentioned with exultation as 
causing him poignant misery ; the death of any near friend is 
triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but ! 
the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in 
whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated 
his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. 
He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a prince true to 
his subjects and indignant of theirwrongs — a soldier, daring 
in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of 
every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the 
cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untam- 
able love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among 
the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished re- 
cesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty 
spirit to submission and live dependent and despised in the 
ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities 
and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized 
warrior and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the 
historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native 
land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid 
darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his 
fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 

Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 

And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 

With an old study filled full of learned old books. 

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his 

looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

— Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English more 
excel than that which consists in caricaturing and giving 
ludicrous appellations or nicknames. In this way they have 
whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but nations; 
and, in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not 
spared even themselves. One would think that, in personify- 
ing itself, a nation would be apt to picture something grand, 
heroic, and imposing; but it is characteristic of the peculiar 
humor of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, 
comic, and familiar, that they have embodied their national 
oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with 
a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and 
stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight 
in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable point 
of view; and have been so successful in their delineations, 
that there is scarcely a being in actual existence more abso- 
lutely present to the public mind than that eccentric per- 
sonage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 

403 



404 THE SKETCH BOOK 

drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and 
thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in 
a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to ac- 
quire peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The 
common orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with 
the beau ideaV- which they have formed of John Bull, and en- 
deavor to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually 
before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their 
boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness; 
and this I have especially noticed among those truly home- 
bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated 
beyond the sound of Bow-bells.- If one of these should be a 
little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, 
he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks 
his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst 
of passion about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a 
choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, 
and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste 
and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven 
for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish 
for frippery and knicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled 
by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is 
excused under the plea of munificence — for John is always 
more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John BuH, he will contrive to 
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict him- 
self of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited in 
the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the na- 
tion, or rather they have adapted themselves to each other; 

1. beau ideal, the model, or pattern of all that is to be desired. 2. 
Bow-belis. See note 1, page 327. 



JOHN BULL 405 

and a stranger who wishes to study English pecularities may 
gather much valuable information from the innumerable 
portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the 
caricature shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile 
humorists, that are continually throwing out new portraits, 
and presenting different aspects from different pointsH)f view ; 
and, often as he has been described, I cannot resist the temp- 
tation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my 
eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, matter- 
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich 
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast 
deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more 
than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy rather than 
morose; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or surprised 
into a broad laugh; but he loathes sentiment, and has no 
turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you 
allow him to have his humor and to talk about himself ; and 
he will stand by a friend in a quarrel with life and purse, 
however soundly he may be cudgeled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to 
be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who 
thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the 
country round, and is most generously disposed to be every- 
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his services 
to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon 
if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking 
his advice; though he seldom engages in any friendly office 
of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with 
all parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He 
unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of 
defense, and having accomplished himself in the use of his 



406 THE SKETCH BOOK 

limbs and his weapons and become a perfect master at box-^ 
ing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant 
of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with 
the head of his cudgel and consider whether his interest or 
honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. 
Indeed he has extended his relations of pride and policy so 
completely over the whole country, that no event can take 
place without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and 
dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments 
stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, 
bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole 
chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz nor a breeze blow with- 
out startling his repose and causing him to sally forth wrath- 
fully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of con- 
tention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only 
relishes the beginning of an affray; he always goes into a 
fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when 
victorious ; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to 
carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he 
comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the 
mere shaking of hands that he is apt to let his antagonist 
pocket all that they have been quarreling about. It is not, 
therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard 
against as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out 
of a farthing; but put him in a good humor and you may 
bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a 
stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, 
but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pull- 



JOHN BULL 407 

ing out a long purse, flinging his money bravely about at 
boxing matches, horse races, cockfights, and carrying a high 
head among "gentlemen of the fancy" ;^ but immediately 
after one of these fits of extravagance he will be taken with 
violent qualms of economy ; stop short at the most trivial ex- 
penditure; talk desperately of being ruined and brought upon 
the parish; and, in such moods, will not pay the smallest 
tradesman's bill without violent altercation. He is in fact 
the most punctual and discontented paymaster in the world; 
drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite re- 
luctance; paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompany- 
ing every guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a 
whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may 
afford to be extravagant; for he will begrudge himself a beef- 
steak and pint of port one day that he may roast an ox 
whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors 
on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive, not 
so much from any great outward parade as from the great 
consumption of solid beef and pudding, the vast number of 
followers he feeds and clothes, and his singular disposition to 
pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind and indul- 
gent master and, provided his servants humor his peculi- 
arities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not 
peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage 
him to perfection. Everything that lives on him seems to 
thrive and grow fat. His house servants are well paid, and 
pampered, and have little to do. His horses are sleek and 
lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage; and his 

1. gentlemen of the fancy, persons of sporting interests. 



408 ' THE SKETCH BOOK 

house dogs sleep quietly about the door and will hardly bark 
at a housebreaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable though weather-beaten 
appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a 
vast accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. 
The center bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is 
as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make 
it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure pas- 
sages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers; and though 
these have been partially lighted up in modern days, yet 
there are many places where you must still grope in the dark. 
Additions have been made to the original edifice from time 
to time, and great alterations have taken place: towers and , 
battlements have been erected during wars and tumults; 
wings built in time of peace ; and outhouses, lodges, and 
offices run up according to the whim or convenience of differ- 
ent generations, until it has become one of the most spacious, 
rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken up 
with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that must have been 
exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been 
altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of 
solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are stored with the 
monuments of John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted up 
with soft cushions and well-lined chairs where such of his 
family as are inclined to church services may doze comfort- 
ably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; but he 
is stanch in his religion and piqued in his zeal, from the cir- 
cumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected 
in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he 
has had quarrels, are strong papists. 



JOHN BULL 409 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large ex- 
pense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most 
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred 
Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opin- 
ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the 
children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the 
tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, 
to pay their rents punctually and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich 
though faded tapestiy, unwieldy furniture, and loads of 
massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, 
extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak 
of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern 
festivity at the manor house is but a shadow. There are, 
however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and 
time-worn, and towers and turrets that are tottering to 
decay, so that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling 
about the ears of the household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts 
pulled down and the others strengthened with their mate- 
rials; but the old gentleman always grows testy on this sub- 
ject. He swears the house is an excellent house — that it is 
tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — 
that it has stood for several hundred years and therefore 
is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its being incon- 
venient, his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, and 
would not be comfortable without them — that as to its un- 
wieldy size and irregular construction, these result from its 
being the growth of centuries, and being improved by the 



410 THE SKETCH BOOK 

wisdom of every generation — that an old family like his r 
quires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families ma; 
live in modern cottages and snug boxes; but an old English 
family should inhabit an old English manor house. If you 
point out any part of the building as superfluous he insists 
that it is material to the strength or decoration of the rest 
and the harmony of the whole; and swears that the parts are 
so built into each other that if you pull down one you run 
the risk of having the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposi- 
tion to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to 
the dignity of an ancient and honorable family to be bounte- 
ous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents; 
and so, partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, 
he makes it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to 
his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
establishments, his manor is encumbered by old retainers 
whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which he cannot 
lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids 
and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its 
inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in housing 
some useless personage. Groups of veteran beefeaters, gouty 
pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, 
are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, doz 
ing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches! 
at its doors. Every office and outhouse is garrisoned by these 
supernumeraries and their families; for they are amazingly 
prolific, and when they die off are sure to leave John a legacy 
of hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be 
struck against the most moldering tumble-down tower bul 
out pops, from some cranny or loophole, the gray pate oi 



JOHN BULL 411 

some superannuated hanger-on who has lived at John's ex- 
pense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their 
pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out serv- 
ant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart 
never can withstand ; so that a man who has faithfully eaten 
his beef and pudding all his life is sure to be rewarded with 
a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze 
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy 
example of grateful recollection, which if some of his neigh- 
bors w^re to imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, 
it is one of his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to 
his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past 
services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of the perilous 
adventures and hardy exploits through which they have 
carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages and family incumbrances to a whimsical extent. His 
manor is infested by gangs of gypsies; yet he will not suffer 
them to be driven off, because they have infested the place 
time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every gen- 
eration of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch 
to be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest 
it should molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote; but they are 
hereditary owls and must not be disturbed. Swallows have 
nearly choked up every chimney with their nests; martins 
build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter about the 
towers, and perch on every weathercock ; and old gray-headed 
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in 
and out of their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. In 



412 THE SKETCH BOOK 

short, John has such a reverence for everything that has been 
long in the family that he will not hear even of abuses being 
reformed, because they are good old family abuses. 

All those whims and habits have concurred woefully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse; and as he prides himself on 
punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his 
credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great per- 
plexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been 
increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are 
continually taking place in his family. His children have 
been brought up to different callings and are of different 
ways of thinking; and as they have always been allowed to 
speak their minds freely they do not fail to exercise thei 
privilege most clamorously in the present posture of his af- 
fairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear 
that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and 
considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his ex- 
penses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a; 
more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed 
inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome ad-t 
vice has been completely defeated by the obstreperous con- 
duct of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, 
of rather low habits, who neglects his business to frequent' 
alehouses — is the orator of village clubs, and a complete 
oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner 
does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or retrench- 
ment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, 
and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once 
going nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors 
the old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules hiij 
tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the old servants 



JOHN BULL 413 

out of doors; give the broken-down horses to the hounds; 
send the fat chaplain packing and take a field-preacher in 
his place — nay, that the whole family mansion shall be 
leveled with the ground and a plain one of brick and mortar 
built in its place. He rails at every social entertainment and 
family festivity, and skulks away growling to the alehouse 
whenever an equipage drives up to the door. Though con- 
stantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he 
scruples not to spend all his pocket money in these tavern 
convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over 
which he preaches about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has 
become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere 
mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl 
between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too 

\ sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown 

. out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of 
wordy warfare, v/hich at times runs so high that John is fain 

j to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served 
abroad, but is at present living at home, on half-pay. This 

; last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong; 
likes nothing so much as a racketing, roistering life; and is 
ready at a wink or nod to out saber, and flourish it over the 

: orator's head if he dares to array himself against paternal 

. authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and 
are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People 
begin to look wise and shake their heads whenever his af- 

; fairs are mentioned. They all "hope that matters are not so 
bad with him as represented ; but when a man's own children 
begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly man- 



414 THE SKETCH BOOK 

aged. They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, 
and is continually dabbling with money lenders. He is cer- 
tainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear he has 
lived too fast; indeed, they never knew any good come of 
this fondness for hunting, racing, reveling, and prize fighting. 
In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in 
the family a long time; but, for all that, they have known 
many finer estates come to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 
man himself. Instead of that jolly, round corporation, and 
smug, rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late be- 
come as shriveled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His 
scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in i 
those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now 
hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His . 
leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently 
have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides ;| 
of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cor- 
nered hat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it: 
down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground; 
looking everyone sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave 
of a catch or a drinking song; he now goes about whistling 
thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down, his 
cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the 
bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet for 
all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. 
If you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern he 
takes fire in an instant; swears that he is the richest and 
stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out large sums 



. JOHN BULL 415 

to adorn his house or buy another estate; and with a valiant 
swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have 
another bout at quarterstaff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all 
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation with- 
out strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and 
obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He 
may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, 
but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors represent 
him. His virtues are all his own; all plain, homebred, and 
unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good 
qualities. His extravagance savors of his generosity ; his quar- 
relsomeness of his courage; his credulity of his open faith; 
his vanity of his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity. 
They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. 
He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound and solid 
within ; whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion 
to the growth and grandeur of the timber; and whose 
branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the least 
storm, from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is 
something, too, in the appearance of his old family mansion 
that is extremely poetical and picturesque; and, as long as it 
can be rendered comfortably habitable I should almost 
tremble to see it meddled with during the present conflict of 
tastes and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good 
architects that might be of service; but many, I fear, are 
mere levelers, who, when they had once got to work with 
their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop 
until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried 
themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's 
present troubles may teach him more prudence in future: 
that he may cease to distress his mind about other people's 



416 THE SKETCH BOOK 






affairs; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promo' 
the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of thi 
world by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cultivate his rich 
estate according to his fancy; husband his income — if he 
thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order — if he 
can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and long 
enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a 
merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

May no wolfe howle; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

— Herrick.i 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the coun- 
try, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation of 
which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of 
primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be found in 
the villages which lie on the great coach roads. I deter- 
mined to pass the night there, and, having taken an early 
dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travelers, soon led 
me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the 
village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old 
tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here 
and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fan- 
tastically carved ornament, peered through the verdant 
covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the 
day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had 
cleared up; and though sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet 
there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which 
the setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves and lit 
up all nature with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the 

1. Herrick, Robert. See note 2, page 206. 

417 



418 THE SKETCH BOOK 

parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and sor- 
rows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, 
an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half -sunken tombstone, and was 
musmg, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and 
those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melan- 
choly fancying which has in it something sweeter even than 
pleasure. Every now and then the stroke of a bell from the 
neighboring tower fell on my ear; its tones were in unison 
with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my 
feelings; and it was some time before I recollected that it 
must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green; it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and reap- 
peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the 
place where I was sitting. The pail was supported by young 
girls dressed in white, and another, about the age of seven- 
teen, walked before bearing a chaplet of white flowers — a 
token that the deceased was a young and unmarried female. 
The corpse was followed by the parents. They were a vener- 
able couple of the better order of peasantry. The father 
seemed to repress his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted 
brow, and deeply-furrowed face showed the struggle that was , 
passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud 
with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the center aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, 
with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which 
the deceased had occupied. 

Everyone knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 419 

someone he has loved to the tomb ; but when performed over 
the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the 
bloom of existence — what can be more affecting? At that 
simple but most solemn consignment of the body to the 
grave — ''Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust!" — 
the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed 
unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his 
feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance that 
the dead are blessed which die in the Lord; but the mother 
only thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down 
and withered in the midst of its sweetness; she was like 
Rachel, "mourning over her children,^ and would not be 
comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the 
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her 
father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in 
circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up en- 
tirely at home in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little 
flock. The good man watched over her education with 
paternal care; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in 
which she was to move, for he only sought to make her an 
ornament to her station in life, not to raise her above it. The 
tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption 
from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace 
and delicacy of character that accorded with the fragile 
loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender plant 
of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives 
of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 

1. Rachel, mourning over her children. See Matthew ii, 18. 



420 THE SKETCH BOOK 

by her companions, but without envy; for it was surpassed 
by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her 
manners. It might be truly said of her: 

This is the prettiesti lowborn lass, that ever 
Ran on the greensward; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place. 

The village was one of those sequestered spots which still 
retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 
festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint 
observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 
had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of 
old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think 
their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good- 
will among mankind. Under his auspices the Maypole stood 
from year to year in the center of the village green ; on May 
Day it was decorated with garlands and streamers; and a 
queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, 
to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and re- 
wards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the 
fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice 
of casual visitors. Among these, on one May Day, was a 
young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered 
in the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste 
that pervaded this village pageant; but, above all, with the 
dawning loveliness of the Queen of May. It was the village 
favorite, who was crowned with flowers and blushing and 
smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and 
delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily 
to make her acquaintance; he gradually won his way into 
her intimacy, and paid his court to her in that unthinking 

1. This is the prettiest, etc. From The Winter's Tale, iv, iv, 156 ff. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 421 

way in which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic 
simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
never even talked of love — but there are modes of making it 
more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtlely 
•and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone 
of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from 
every word and look and action — these form the true elo- 
quence of love, and can always be felt and understood, but 
never described. Can we wonder that they should readily 
win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she 
loved almost unconsciously; she scarcely inquired what was 
the growing passion that was absorbing every thought and 
feeling, or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, 
looked not to the future. When present, his looks and words 
occupied her whole attention ; when absent, she thought but 
of what had passed at their recent interview. She would 
wander with him through the green lanes and rural scenes of 
the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature; 
he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and 
breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the 
sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant 
figure of her youthful admirer and the splendor of his mil- 
itary attire might at first have charmed her eye; but it was 
not these that had captivated her heart. Her attachment 
had something in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to 
a being of a superior order. She felt in his society the en- 
thusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now 
first awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful and 
grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune she 
thought nothing; it was the difference of intellect, of de- 



422 THE SKETCH BOOK 

meaner, of manners, from those of the rustic society to which 
she had been accustomed, that elevated him in her opinionj 
She would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look 
of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthusi- 
asm; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admira- 
tion, it was as quickly withdravm, and she would sigh and 
blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the 
connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother 
officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 
triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of 
spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart 
had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a 
wandering and a dissipated life: it caught fire from the very 
flame it sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the 
nature of his situation he became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which 
so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank 
in life, the prejudices of titled connections, his dependence 
upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him to 
think of matrimony; but when he looked down upon this 
innocent being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity 
in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching 
modesty in her looks that awed down every licentious feel- 
ing. In vain did he try to fortify himself by a thousand 
heartless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow 
of generous sentiment with that cold, derisive levity with 
which he had heard them talk of female virtue. Whenever 
he came into her presence, she was still surrounded by that 
mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity in whose 
hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 423 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to 
the Continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- 
mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irreso- 
lution ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings until the day 
for marching was at hand, when he gave her the intelligence 
in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked upon 
it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the 
guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, 
and kissed the tears from her soft cheek; nor did he meet 
with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and 
tenderness which hallow the caresses of affection. He was 
naturally impetuous; and the sight of beauty, apparently 
yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, 
and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to over- 
whelm his better feelings — he ventured to propose that she 
should leave her home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and 
faltered at his own baseness; but so innocent of mind was 
his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to com- 
prehend his meaning, and why she should leave her native 
village and the humble roof of her parents. When at las*- 
the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure mind the 
effect was withering. She did not weep, she did not break 
forth into reproach, she said not a word — but she shrunk 
back aghast as from a viper; gave him a look of anguish 
that pierced to his very soul, and, clasping her hands in 
agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict 
of his feelings had not his thoughts been diverted by the 



424 THE SKETCH BOOK 

bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new! 
companions soon dissipated his self-reproach and stifled hisi 
tenderness; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, 
his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of 
rural quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the 
footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, 
and the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his 
arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming with uncon- 
scious affection. 

Tbe shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings 
and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were 
succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had 
beheld from her window the march of the departing troops. 
She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, 
amidst the sound of drum and trumpet and the pomp of 
arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morn- 
ing sun glittered about his figure and his plume waved in the 
breeze; he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, 
and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had 
most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken 
deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the 
barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she 
would be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the 
village church ; and the milkmaids, returning from the fields, 
would now and then overhear her singing some plaintive 
ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her de- 
votions at church; and as the old people saw her approach, 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 425 

SO wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed 
air which melancholy diffuses round the form, they would 
make way for her, as for something spiritual, and, looking 
after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord 
that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed 
to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle 
bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was 
extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions; and in 
a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a fare- 
well letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but 
touching from its very simplicity. She told him that she was 
dying, and did not conceal from him that his conduct was the 
cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she had ex- 
perienced; but concluded with saying that she could not die 
in peace until she had sent him her forgiveness and her 
blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined, so that she could no 
longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the win- 
dow, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to 
sit all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered 
no complaint, nor imparted to anyone the malady that was 
preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's 
name, but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and 
weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, 
over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- 
selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the 
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek 
might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was 



426 THE SKETCH BOOK 

thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it 
the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own 
hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible; 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of 
heaven — it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity 
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village 
church; the bell had tolled for the evening service; the last 
villager was lagging into the porch; and everything had sunk 
into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her 
parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness 
and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given 
to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her 
soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover or 
were her thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard 
into whose bosom she might soon be gathered? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her 
chair: it was her repentant lover! He rushed into the house, 
and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form — her 
deathlike countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desola- 
tion — smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in agony 
at her feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempted to 
extend her trembling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, 
but no word was articulated — she looked down upon him 
with a smile of unutterable tenderness — and closed her eyes 
forever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little 
novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for 
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may ap- 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 427 

pear trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly 
at the time; and, taken in connection with the affecting cere- 
mony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression 
on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking 
nature. I have passed through the place since, and visited 
the church again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. 
It was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their 
foliage; the churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the 
wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, how- 
ever, had been planted about the grave of the village favorite, 
and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the 
funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed 
to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. 
I have seen many monuments where art has exhausted its 
powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have 
met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart than 
this simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER 

This day dame Nature seemed in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie. 

Rose at well-dissembled fly. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill. 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

— Sir H. WoTTON.i 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, 
from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect 
that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who 
are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle 
rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the 
seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton.^ I recollect study- 
ing his Complete Angler several years since, in company with 
a knot of friends in America, and moreover that we were all 
completely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in 
the year ; but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that 
the spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took 
rod in hand and sallied into the country, as stark mad as 
was ever Don Quixote^ from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fullness of 
his equipments; being attired cap-a-pie^ for the enterprise. 
He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a 

1. Wotton, Sir Henry (1568-1639), an English author. 2. Izaak 
Walton (1593-1683), an English writer. 3. Don Quixote, the hero of 
Cervantes' s novel of the same name, was driven by his reading of ro- 
mances of chivalry to attempt the performance of similar deeds himself. 
4. cap-a-pie, from head to foot. 

428 



THE ANGLER 429 

hundred pockets; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; 
a basket slung on one side for fish; a patent rod, a landing 
net, and a score of other inconveniences, only to be found in 
the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he 
was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among the 
country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the 
steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the 
Sierra Morena.^ 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson; a most unfortunate place for the 
execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic 
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch book 
of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap 
down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the 
trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless 
weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping 
with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret 
along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with 
murmurs; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth 
into open day with the most placid, demure face imaginable ; 
as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after 
filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 
out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon 
all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such 
times, through some bosom of green meadowland among the 
mountains, where the quiet was only interrupted by the occa- 
sional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, 
or the sound of a woodcutter's ax from the neighboring forest. 

1. La Mancha .... Sierra Morena, places mentioned in Don Quixote. 



430 THE SKETCH BOOK 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not 
angled above half an hour before I had completely "satisfied 
the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak 
Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a 
man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; 
tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; 
until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day 
under the trees, reading old Izaak; satisfied that it was his 
fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that 
had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My 
companions, however, were more persevering in their de- 
lusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing 
along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, 
or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern 
rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely- 
invaded haunt; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously 
from his dry tree that overhangs the deep, black mill pond, 
in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip side- 
ways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning him- 
self; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they 
approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery 
world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creep- 
ing about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any 
success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly 
country urchin came down from the hills with a rod made 
from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as heaven 
shall help me! I believe, a crooked pin for a hook, baited 
with a vile earthworm — and in half an hour caught more fish 
than we had nibbles throughout the day! 



THE ANGLER 431 

But, above all, I recollect, the "good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry" repast, which we made under a beech tree, just by a 
spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; 
and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak 
Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass 
and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. 
All this may appear like mere egotism; yet I cannot refrain 
from uttering these recollections, which are passing like a 
strain of music over my mind, and have been called up by an 
agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- 
tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills 
and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted 
to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found 
it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The 
former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very 
much but very carefully patched, betokening poverty hon- 
estly come by and decently maintained. His face bore the 
marks of former storms, but present fair weather; its fur- 
rows had been worn into an habitual smile; his iron-gray 
locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good- 
humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed 
to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a 
ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, 
and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish- 
pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other 
was a tall, awkward country lad, with a lounging gait, and 
apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was 
busy in examining the maw of a trout which he had just 
killed, to discover by its contents what insects were season- 
able for bait, and was lecturing on the subject to his com- 



432 THE SKETCH BOOK 






panions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference, 
have a kind feeling toward all "brothers of the angle," eve: 
since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a 
"mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit"; and my esteem for them 
has been increased since I met with an old "Tretyse^ of fish- 
ing with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the 
maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. "Take good hede," 
sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about your 
disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them 
again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for 
no covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your money 
only, but principally for your solace, and to cause the helth 
of your body and specyally of your soule."" 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before 
me an exemplification of what I had read; and there was a 
cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me toward 
him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he 
stumped from one part of the brook to another; waving his 
rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground 
or catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which 
he would throw his fly to any particular place; sometimes 
skimming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it 

1. Tretyse. The Tretyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle, first printed 
by Wynkyn de Worde in 1496. The authorship of it is uncertain. 
Irving modernizes the spelling a good deal in his quotations, which may, 
however, have been taken from a late reprint of the Tretyse. As it 
was first printed, the Tretyse formed part of the famous Boke of St. 
Albans, a volume treating of hawking, hunting, fishing, and heraldry. 
2. your soule. From this same treatise, it would appear that angling 
is a more industrious and devout employment than it is generally con- 
sidered. — "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye 
will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, ■s\diich might let you 
of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effect- 
ually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and 
also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall cause to induce 
man to many other vices as it is right well known." [Author's Note.] 



THE ANGLER 433 

into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or over- 
hanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In 
the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples, 
showing them the manner in which they should handle their 
rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the 
stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions of 
the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country round was of 
that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It 
was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beau- 
tiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh 
hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. 
The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and 
sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that 
sowed the whole earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was 
so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instruc- 
tions in his art, I kept company w^th him almost the whole 
day; wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening 
to his talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy 
garrulity of cheerful old age; and I fancy w^as a little flat- 
tered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory 
lore; for who does not like now and then to play the sage? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the 
indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced 
many ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where 
his leg was carried away by a cannon ball at the battle of 
Camperdown.^ This was the only stroke of real good for- 
tune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, 

1. battle of Camperdown. A naval battle between the Dutch and 
the English on October 11, 1797, in which the Dutch were defeated. 



434 THE SKETCH BOOK 

together with some small paternal property, brought him in a 
revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his 
native village, where he lived quietly and independently; and 
devoted the remainder of his life to the "noble art of 
angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and preva- 
lent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about 
the world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good 
and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in dif- 
ferent countfies as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every 
hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor 
and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of 
things: and, above all, he was almost the only man I had 
ever met with who had been an unfortunate adventurer in 
America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take 
the fault to his own door, and not to curse the country. The 
lad that was receiving his instructions, I learned, was the son 
and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village 
inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and much 
courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. 
In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had 
probably an eye to a privileged corner in the taproom, and 
an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling (if we could for- 
get, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures 
inflicted on worms and insects) that tends to produce a 
gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the 
English are methodical, even in their recreations, and are the 
most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among them 
to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an amusement 
peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated scenery 
of England, where every roughness has been softened away 



THE ANGLER 435 

from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those 
limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through 
the bosom of this beautiful country; leading one through a 
diversity of small home scenery; sometimes winding through 
ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along through 
rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet- 
smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villages 
and hamlets, and then running capriciously away into shady 
retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and the 
quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant 
fits of musing; which are now and then agreeably interrupted 
by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the peasant, or 
perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still 
water and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. 
"When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, "and 
increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence 
of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding 
stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, 
and those very many other little living creatures that are not 
only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness 
of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same 
innocent and happy spirit: 

Let me livei harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 
And on the world and my Creator think; 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t'embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

^ 1. Let me live, etc., by J. Davors. 



436 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will. 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of i 
abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the vil- 
lage a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek: 
him out. I found him living in a small cottage, containing 
only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and 
arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green 
bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden ini 
front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a few 
flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with ai 
honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The i 
interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of; 
comfort and convenience having been acquired on the berth- ■ 
deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceil-- 
ing, which, in the daytime was lashed up so as to take but 
little room. From the center of the chamber hung a model I 
of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, ai 
table, and a large sea chest, formed the principal movables. 
About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as "Admiral I 
Hosier's^ Ghost," "All in the Downs,"^ and "Tom Bowline,"^ 
intermingled with pictures of seafights, among which the: 
battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 

1. Hosier, Francis (1673-1727), an English Admiral, died at Jamaica 
of fever, together with more than four thousand officers and men. He 
is supposed to have died of a broken heart, and the ballad is one of re- 
proach addressed to his enemies. It is printed in Percy's Reliques, 
Volume II, page 376. 2. All in the Downs, part of the words of the 
ballad, "Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan," by John Gay 
(1688-1732) . 3. Tom Bowline (Bowling) was written by Charles Dibdin 
(1745-1814). 



THE ANGLER 437 

mantelpiece was decorated with seashells, over which hung 
a quadrant, flanked by two woodcuts of most bitter-looking 
naval commanders. His implements for angling were care- 
fully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a 
shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on angling, 
much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume or 
two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and 
a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated him- 
self, in the course of one of his voyages; and which uttered a 
variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a 
veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that 
of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was kept in neat order, 
everything being "stowed away" with the regularity of a 
ship of war; and he informed me that he "scoured the deck 
every morning, and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking 
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring 
soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the center 
of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a 
history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general 
would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated in 
relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, 
which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and 
which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old 
age; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being 
tempest-tossed through life, safely moored in a snug and 
quiet harbor in the evening of his days! His happiness, 
however, sprung from within himself, and was independent 
of external circumstances ; for he had that inexhaustible good- 



438 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven, spreading 
itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping 
the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a 
universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap- 
room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like 
Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands and 
shipwrecks and sea-fights. He was much noticed, too, by 
gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood; had taught sev- 
eral of them the art of angling; and was a privileged visitor 
to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and 
inoffensive; being principally passed about the neighboring 
streams, when the weather and season were favorable ; and at 
other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fish- 
ing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, 
nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though 
he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it 
his particular request that when he died he should be buried 
in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, 
and which he had marked out ever since he was a boy and 
had thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in 
danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot where 
his father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this 
worthy "brother of the angle"; who has made me more than 
ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be 
adroit in the practice of his art; and I will conclude this 
rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by 
craving the blessing of St. Peter's Master upon my reader, 
"and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare trust 
in His providence, and be quiet; and go a-angling." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW^ 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye; 

And o^ gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

— Castle of Indolence .- 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent 
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of 
the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 
Tappan Zee/ and where they always prudently shortened 
sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas* when they 
crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which 
by some is called Greensburgh,^ but which is more generally 
and properly known by the name of Tarry town. This name 
was given, we are told, in former days, by the good house- 
wives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity 
of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on mar- 

1. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Irving, Life and Letters I, 316, 
speaking of the number of The Sketch Book which contained The 
Legend of Sleepy Hollow, characterized the Legend as follows: "There 
is a Knickerbocker story which may please from its representation of 
American scenes. It is a random thing, suggested by recollections of 
scenes and stories about Tarrytown. The story is a mere whimsical 
band to connect descriptions of scenery, customs, manners, etc." Ex- 
amine the structure of the story in the light of this criticism. 2. Castle 
of Indolence, by James Thomson (1700-1748), English poet. 3. Tap- 
pan Zee, a lake-like expansion of the Hudson at Tarrytown. On the 
opposite side of the river to Tarrytown is the village of Nyack. Tarry- 
town is about 30 miles north of New York. Sunnyside, where Irving 
passed the last years of his life, is not far from Tarrytown. 4. St. 
Nicholas was the patron saint of mariners and was held in special re- 
spect by the Dutch as a sea-faring people. 5. by some is called Greens- 
burgh. The name Greensburgh has gone out of use. 

439 



440 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ket days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but 
merely advert to it for the sake of being precise and authen- 
tic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there 
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which 
is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small 
brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one 
to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping 
of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks 
in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- 
rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades 
one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, 
when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the 
roar of my own gun as it broke the Sabbath stillness around 
and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. 
If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from 
the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the 
remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising 
than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar char-' 
acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the orig- 
inal Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been 
known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are 
called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighbor- 
ing country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang 
over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some 
say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor,^ 

1. a High German doctor. The High Germans are residents of the 
higher and more southern sections of Germany; the Low Germans, or 
Piatt Deutsch, of the low-lying northern regions. There is no apparent 
reason why Irving should make his magic-working doctor a High Ger- 
man, except that a High German would be exceptional in a Dutch com- 
munity. The High German doctor figures in others of his stories; see 
The Adventure of the Black Fisherman in The Tales of a Traveler and 
Dolph Heyliger in Bracebridge Hall. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 441 

during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old 
Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow- 
wows there before the country was discovered by Master 
Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues 
under the sway of some witching power that holds a spell 
over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in 
a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of mar- 
velous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and fre- 
quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the 
air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, 
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and 
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other 
part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine 
fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers 
of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without 
a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian 
trooper,^ whose head had been carried away by a cannon 
ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War; 
and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying 
along in the gloom of night as if on the wings of the wind. 
His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times 
to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a 
church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most 
authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in 
collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 
specter, allege that the body of the trooper, having been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene 
of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing 

1. a Hessian trooper. The Hessians were mercenary German 
troops employed by the British during the Revolutionary War. Many of 
them remained in America at the end of the war. 



442 THE SKETCH BOOK 

speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like 
a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated and in a 
hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows; and the specter is known atlall the coun- 
try firesides by the name of the Headless Horseman of 
Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, 
but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there 
for a time. However wide awake they may have been before 
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure in a little time 
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is 
in such little, retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great state of New York, that population, 
manners, and customs remain fixed; while the great torrent 
of migration and improvement, which is making such inces- 
sant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by 
them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 
water which border a rapid stream, where we may see the 
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor or slowly revolv- 
ing in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the 
passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I 
trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question 
whether I should not still find the same trees and the same 
families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period 
of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 443 

or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the 
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a 
native of Connecticut; a state which supplies the Union with 
pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth 
yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to 
his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out 
of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and 
his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was 
small and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock 
perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind 
blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a 
windy day with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him 
one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine de- 
scending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leaves of old copy books. It was most 
ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in 
the handle of the door and stakes set against the window 
shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect 
ease he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an 
idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van 
Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot.^ The schoolhouse 
stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the 
foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by and a 
formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence 

1. eelpot, an eel trap, so made that when the eel is once in its escape 
is impossible. 



444 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their les- 
sons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum 
of a beehive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, 
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he 
urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowl-' 
edge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever 
bore in mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod^ and spoil the 
child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of i 
those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of! 
their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice withi 
discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden offi 
the backs of the weak and laying it on those of the strong. 
Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish 
of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims ofi 
justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some: 
little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who; 
sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the; 
birch. All this he called "doing his duty by their parents";; 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by 
the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, thati 
"he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest day, 
he had to live." 

When school hours were over he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons; 
would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened 
to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted 
for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him 
to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising, 
from his school was small, and would have been scarcely > 

1. spare the rod, etc. See Proverbs xiii, 24. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 445 

sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge 
feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an ana- 
conda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to 
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the 
houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With 
these he lived successively a week at a time ; thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling 
a grievous burden and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. 
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of 
their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took 
the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and cut 
wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant 
dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little 
empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and 
ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by 
petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the 
lion bold,^ which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did 
hold, he would sit with a child on one knee and rock a 
cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing mas- 
ter of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings 
by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter 
of no little vanity to him on Sundays to take his station in 
front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers, 

1. like the lion bold, from the illustrated alphabet of the New 
England Primer, which for the letter L gives a picture of a lion holding 
a lamb in its paws, followed by the verses: 
"The lion bold 
The lamb doth hold." 



446 THE SKETCH BOOK 

where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm 
from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above 
all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar 
quavers still to be heard in that church, and which m.ay even 
be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the 
mill pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be 
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. 
Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which 
is commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and v/as thought, 
by all v/ho understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to 
have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered 
a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of vastly superior 
taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, 
indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- 
ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea 
table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary 
dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of 
a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he 
would figure among them in the churchyard, between serv- 
ices on Sundays, gathering grapes for them from the wild 
vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their 
amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or saunter- 
ing, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the 
adjacent mill pond; while the more bashful country bump- 
kins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance 
and address. 

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 447 

to house, SO that his appearance was always greeted with 
satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a 
man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite 
through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's his- 
tory^ of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he 
most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his 
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both 
had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. 
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover border- 
ing the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and 
there con over old Mather's direful tales until the gathering 
dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before 
his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream 
and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to 
be quartered, every sound of nature at that witching hour 
fluttered his excited imagination : the moan of the whippoor- 
will- from the hillside ; the boding cry of the tree toad, that 
harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or 
the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly 
in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of 
uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if,, 
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
blundering flight against him the poor varlet was ready to 

1. Cotton Mather's history. Mather was one of the most notable of 
the New England Puritan preachers. His Wonders of the Invisible 
World appeared in 1693. It is this book which is here referred to. 2. 
whippoorwill. The whippoorwill is a bird which is only heard at night. 
It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble the 
>vord. [Author's Note. J 



448 THE SKETCH BOOK 

give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm 
tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by 
their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hear- 
ing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness^ long drawn out," 
floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat 
spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 
spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous 
tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted 
brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and par- 
ticularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of 
the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight 
them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft and of the dire- 
ful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which 
prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would 
frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and 
shooting stars ; and with the alarming fact that the world did 
absolutely turn round and that they were half the time 
topsy-turvy! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly 
cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of 
a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, 
of course, no specter dared to show his face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homeward. 
What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the 
dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! — With what wistful 
look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across 
the waste fields from some distant window! — How often was 

1. in linked sweetness, etc. From Milton's L' Allegro, 1, 140. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 449 

he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a 
sheeted specter, beset his very path! — How often did he 
shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the 
frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his 
shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping 
close behind him! — And how often was he thrown into com- 
plete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the 
trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one 
of his nightly scourings! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- 
toms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had 
seen many specters in his time, and been more than once 
beset by Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, 
yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have 
passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his 
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes 
more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the 
whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was 
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a sub- 
stantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh 
eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy- 
cheeked as one of her father's peaches; and universally 
famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. 
She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived 
even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and mod- 
ern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore 
the ornaments of pure yellow gold which her great-great- 
grandmother had brought over from Saardam;^ the tempting 
stomacher of the olden time; and withal a provokingly short 

1. Saardam, a small town in Holland, near Amsterdam 



450 THE SKETCH BOOK 

petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the 
country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the 
sex ; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a mor- 
sel soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had 
visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel 
was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted 
farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his 
thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within | 
those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He ' 
was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued] 
himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style inij 
which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of j 
the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in j 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great | 
elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; at the foot ofj 
which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, j 
in a little well formed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling;! 
away through the grass to a neighboring brook, that bubbled, 
along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm- 
house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; 
every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth! 
with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resound- 
ing within it from morning to night; swallows and martins: 
skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, 
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, 
some with their heads under their wings or buried in their 
bosoms, and others swelling and cooing and bowing about 
their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, 
unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance i 
of their pens; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of 
sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of 



I 



I THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 451 

* snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying 
whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling 
through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, 
I like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented 
cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that 
pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, 
clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and 
gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with 
his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family 
of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devour- 
ing mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig 
running about with a pudding in his belly^ and an apple in 
his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a com- 
fortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese 
were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing 
cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent 
competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved 
out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; 
not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its 
gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of 
savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay 
sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as 
if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained 
to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadowlands, the 
rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, 

1. pudding in his belly. Adapted from Henry IV, Part I, ii, iv, 
499, "that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly." 



452 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit which sur- 
rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned 
after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his 
imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be 
readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense 
tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. 
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented 
to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of chil- 
dren, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 
trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he 
beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her 
heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord 
knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with 
high-ridged but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed 
down from the first Dutch settlers; the low, projecting eaves 
forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up 
in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various 
utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring 
river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; 
and a great spinning wheel at one end, and a churn at the 
other showed the various uses to which this important porch 
might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod 
entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion and 
the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pew- 
ter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner 
stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a 
quantity of linsey-woolsey^ just from the loom; ears of 
Indian corn and strings of dried apples and peaches hung in 

1. linsey-woolsey, coarse cloth made of linen and wool or cotton 
and wool. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 453 

gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red 
peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best 
parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany 
tables shone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompany- 
ing shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus 
tops; mock oranges^ and conch shells decorated the mantle- 
piece; strings of various colored birds' eggs were suspended 
above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the center of 
the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, dis- 
played immense treasures of old silver and well-mended 
china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter 
of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such like easily-conquered adversaries to con- 
tend with ; and had to make his way merely through gates of 
iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, 
where the lady of his heart was confined, all which he 
achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the cen- 
ter of a Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave him her hand 
as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win 
his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a 
labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever present- 
ing new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to encounter 
a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her 
heart; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, 

1. mock oranges, perhaps osage oranges, or hedge-apples; or yellow 
globular gourds. 



454 THE SKETCH BOOK 



Wfl 



but ready to fly out in the common cause against any ne 
competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roistering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rang with his feats of strength and 
hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, 
with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant 
countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. 
From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had 
received the nickname of Brom Bones, b}^ which he was uni- 
versally known. He was famed for great knowledge and 
skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a 
Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cockfights; and, 
with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic 
life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one 
side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting 
of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a 
fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his 
composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there 
was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He 
had three or four boon companions who regarded him as 
their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, 
attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. 
In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, sur- 
mounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a 
country gathering descried this well-known crest at a dis- 
tance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they 
always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his- crew would be 
heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with 
whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old 
dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 455 

till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, 
"Aye, there goes Brom Bones and his gang! " The neighbors 
looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and 
good will ; and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl oc- 
curred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and war- 
ranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the gen- 
tle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered 
that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it 
is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, 
who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; inso- 
much, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's 
paling on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was 
courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," within, all other 
suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other 
quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane 
had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man 
than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a 
wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy 
mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was 
in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough; 
though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed be- 
neath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — 
jerk! he was as erect and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have 
been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinu- 
ating manner. Under cover of his character of singing mas- 



456 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ter he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he 
had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interfer- 
ence of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the 
path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; 
he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a 
reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way 
in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do 
to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, 
as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are fool'sh things, 
and must be looked after, but girls can take care of them- 
selves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, 
or plied her spinning wheel at one end of the piazza, honest 
Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watch- 
ing the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed 
with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod 
would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the 
spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twi- 
light, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point 
or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues and 
may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great 
triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof 
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the 
man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. 
He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled 
to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was 
not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the 
moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 457 

the former evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen 
tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud 
gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have 
settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mode 
of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights- 
errant of yore — by single combat; but Ichabod was too con- 
scious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the 
lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that 
he would "double the schoolmaster up and lay him on a 
shelf of his own schoolhouse"; and he was too wary to give 
him an opportunity. There was something extremely pro- 
voking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no 
alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in 
his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon 
his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- 
cution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harried 
his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing school 
by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at 
night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and win- 
dow stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; so that the 
poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the 
country held their meetings there. But what was still more 
annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into 
ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog 
whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner and 
introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without pro- 
ducing any material effect on the relative situation of the 
contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, 



458 THE SKETCH BOOK 

in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he 
usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. 
In his hand he swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic 
power ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the 
throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk 
before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and 
prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle 
urchins; such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, 
fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game- 
cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of 
justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily 
intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them 
with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing 
stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was sud- 
denly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in a tow- 
cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a 
hat, like a cap of Mercury,^ and mounted on the back of a 
ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope 
by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door 
with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking or 
"quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer- Van 
Tassel's; and having delivered his message with that air of 
importance and effort at fine language which a negro is apt 
to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over 
the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full 
of the importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons 
without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped 
over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a 

1. like a cap of Mercury. Mercury, the messenger of the gods, was 
usually represented as wearing a close-fitting cap. 2. Mynheer, the 
Dutch equivalent of Mr. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 459 

smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their 
speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside 
without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were over- 
turned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was 
turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth 
like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the 
green in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best and indeed 
only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of 
broken looking-glass, that hung up in the schoolhouse. That 
he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true 
style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the 
name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, 
issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But 
it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give 
some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and 
his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow 
horse, that had outlived almost everything but his vicious- 
ness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head 
like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and 
knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glar- 
ing and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, 
if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He 
had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric 
Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very 
probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old 
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking 
devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the 



460 THE SKETCH BOOK 

pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, 
like a scepter, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his 
arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip 
of forehead might be called ; and the skirts of his black coat 
fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appear- 
ance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the 
gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an 
apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into 
brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the 
air ; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves 
of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the 
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fullness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping and 
frolicking, from bush to bush and tree to tree, capricious from 
the very profusion and variety around them. There was the 
honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, 
with its loud, querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds 
flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, 
with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid 
plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and 
yellow-tipped tail, and its little montero^ cap of feathers; and 

1. montero, from the Spanish word montera, meaning "huntsman"; 
a "huntsman's cap." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 461 

the bluejay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat 
and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding 
and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms 
with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way his eye, ever open to 
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight 
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast stores of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
the trees, some gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow 
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round 
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buck- 
wheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he be- 
held them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty 
slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle 
by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
"sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk dov/n into the west. The wide bosom of the 
Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here 
and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue 
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated 
in the sky, without a breath. of air to move them. The hori- 
zon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure 
apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid- 
heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the 



462 THE SKETCH BOOK 

precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky 
sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the 
mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the 
still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the 
air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a 
spare, leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, 
blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long 
waisted short-gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and 
pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. 
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except- 
ing where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, 
gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square- 
skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and 
their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, espe- 
cially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it 
being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nour- 
isher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a 
creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which 
no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted 
for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, 
which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held 
a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 463 

State parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy 
of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and 
white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country 
tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up 
platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, 
known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was 
the doughty doughnut, the tenderer oly koek,^ and the crisp 
and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger 
cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And 
then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; 
besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delec- 
table dishes of preserved plums and peaches and pears and 
quinces; not to mention broiled shad- and roasted chickens; 
together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy- 
piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the 
motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the 
midst — Heaven bless the mark!^ I want breath and time to 
discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get 
on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so 
great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 
dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer; and 
whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. 
He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he 
ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day 
be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and 
splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back 

1. oly koek, literally "oil-cake." A species of cake boiled or fried 
in oil. 2. broiled shad. Irving is guilty of an anachronism here. The 
shad appears in the Hudson only in the early spring, but the time of 
the story is autumn. 3. Heaven bless the mark. For this phrase, 
see Century Dictionary, under "mark." 



464 THE SKETCH BOOK 

upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of 
Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and 
kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare 
to call him comrade. 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with 
a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly 
as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, 
but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap 
on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to 
"'fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, 
or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old 
grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of 
the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instru- 
ment was as old and battered as himself. The greater part 
of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompany- 
ing every movement of the bow with a motion of the head, 
bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot 
whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon 
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle, 
and to have seen his loosely-hung frame in full motion and 
clattering about the room you would have thought Saint 
Vitus^ himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring 
before you in person. He was the admiration of all the 
negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the 
farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shin- 
ing black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight 
at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grin- 

1. Saint Vitus, a Roman saint. In certain places in Germany it was 
customary to dance before his image; he thus came to be regarded as 
the patron of dancers and his name to be invoked in cure of the disease 
known as St. Vitus's Dance. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 465 

ning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of 
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady 
of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling gra- 
ciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom 
Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealously, sat brooding 
by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to 
a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat 
smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former 
times, and drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly-favored places which abound with 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line had 
run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene 
of marauding, and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all 
kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to 
enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little be- 
coming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, 
to make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an. 
old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a myn- 
heer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White- 
plains,^ being an excellent master of defense, parried a musket 
ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it 
whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of 
which, he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the 
hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was per- 

1. battle of Whiteplains, in October, 1776. Whiteplains is a few 
miles north of New York. 



466 THE SKETCH BOOK 

suaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war 
to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appa- 
ritions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legend- 
ary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions 
thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are 
trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the 
population of most of our country places. Besides, there is 
no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they 
have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn 
themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends 
have traveled away from the neighborhood; so that when 
they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no 
acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason 
why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-estab- 
lished Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the 
vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the 
very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed 
forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the 
land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at 
Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and 
wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about 
funeral trains and mourning cries and wailings heard and 
seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre 
was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some 
mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted 
the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek 
on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the 
snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon 
the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 467 

who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the 
country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among 
the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands 
on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly 
forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of 
retirement, A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of water, bordered by high trees, between which peeps may 
be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its 
grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so 
quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might 
rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide 
woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of 
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a 
wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, 
were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it even in the daytime, but occasioned a fear- 
ful darkness at night. This was one of the favorite haunts 
of the headless horseman, and the place where he was most 
frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, 
a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horse- 
man returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush 
and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the 
bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, 
threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the 
tree tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous 
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping 



468 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing,^ he had 
been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered 
to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won 
it, too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, 
just as they came to the church bridge the Hessian bolted 
and vanished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in 
kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken 
place in his native state of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gath- 
ered together their families in their wagons, and were heard 
for some time rattling along the hollow roads and over the 
distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions be- 
hind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, 
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually 
died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all 
silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, accord- 
ing to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with 
the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road 
to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend 
to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I 
fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, 
after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
chop fallen. Oh, these women! these women! Could that 

1. Sing Sing, now known as Ossining. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 469 

girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? 
Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere 
sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only 
knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with 
the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than 
a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to 
notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often 
gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several 
hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously 
from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleep- 
ing, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and whole val- 
leys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night^ that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homeward, 
along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry- 
town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the after- 
noon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him, 
the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of 
waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding 
quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of mid- 
night he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from 
the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and 
faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful 
companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn 
crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, 
far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills — but it 
was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life 
occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of 
a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from 
a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turn- 
ing suddenly in his bed. 

1. the very witching time of night. See Hamlet III, ii, 406. 



470 THE SKETCH BOOK 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in 
the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The 
night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink 
deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them 
from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He 
was, moreover, approaching the very place where many oi 
the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center 
of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like 
a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and 
formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and 
fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, 
twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the 
air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfor- 
tunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and 
was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree.^ 
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect 
and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its 
ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange 
sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whis- 
tle ; he thought his whistle was answered — it was but a blast 
sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he ap- 
proached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, 
hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused and ceased 
v\^histling; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it 
was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning 
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — 
his teeth chattered and his knees smote against the saddle; 
it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another as 
they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree 
in safety, but new perils lay before him. 

1. Major Andre's tree. The place is now marked by a stone monu- 
ment. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 471 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough 
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a 
group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape- 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge 
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the 
unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of 
those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yoemen concealed 
who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a 
haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy 
who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half 
a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement and ran broad- 
side against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with 
the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked 
lustily with the contrary foot. It was all in vain ; his steed 
started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite 
side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. 
The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon 
the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, 
snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, 
with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the 
side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In 
the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, 
he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. 
It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 



472 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was 
now too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping 
ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the 
wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of 
courage, he demanded in stammering accents — "Who are 
you?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a 
still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once 
more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, 
shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a 
psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put 
itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at 
once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some 
degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of 
large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful 
frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but 
kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom 
Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, 
in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, 
quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up 
and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — the other did 
the same. His heart began to sink within him; he en- 
deavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue 
clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a 
stave. There was something in the moody and dogged 
silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious 
and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 473 

mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his 
fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, 
and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on per- 
ceiving that he was headless! — but his horror was still more 
increased on observing that the head, which should have 
rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pom- 
mel of the saddle. His terror rose to desperation; he rained 
a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a 
sudden movement to give his companion the slip — but the 
specter started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, 
through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the 
air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's 
head in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a 
demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and 
plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads 
through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter 
of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, 
and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got 
halfway through the hollow the girths of the saddle gave 
way and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by 
the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and 
had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder 
round the neck when the saddle fell to the earth and he 
heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment 
the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his 
mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for 



474 THE SKETCH BOOK 

petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches, and (un- 
skillful rider that he was! ) he had much ado to maintain his 
seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, 
and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back- 
bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him 
asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection 
of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was 
not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring 
under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where 
Brom Bone's ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If I can 
but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just 
then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close 
behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. 
Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding 
planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast 
a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according 
to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw 
the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling 
his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible 
missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tre- 
mendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by 
like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his sad- 
dle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the 
grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear- 
ance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The 
boys' assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about 
the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 475 

Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of 
poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. 
In one part of the road leading to the church was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs 
deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, 
were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a 
broad part of the brook where the water ran deep and black, 
was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his 
worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; 
two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; 
an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book 
of psalm tunes, full of dogs' ears; and a broken pitchpipe. 
As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they be- 
longed to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History 
of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of 
dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of 
foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless at- 
tempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of 
Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were 
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who 
from that time forward determined to send his children no 
more to school; observing, that he never knew any good 
come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money 
the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's 
pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his 
person at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 



476 THE SKETCH BOOK 

church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips 
were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the 
spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The 
stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, 
were called to mind ; and when they had diligently considered 
them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the pres- 
ent case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion 
that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. 
As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled 
his head any more about him. The school was removed to 
a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue 
reigned in his stead. 

It is true an old farmer who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; 
that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of 
the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortifica- 
tion at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that 
he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the coun- 
try; had kept school and studied law at the same time, had 
been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, 
written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a 
justice of the ten pound court.^ Brom Bones, too, who 
shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the bloom- 
ing Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look 
exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was 
related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the men- 
tion of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he 
knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

1. ten pound court, a court having jurisdiction in small cases not 
involving more than the sum of ten pounds, or about fifty dollars. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 477 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was 
spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite 
story often told about the neighborhood round the winter- 
evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object 
of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the 
road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill pond. The schoolhouse, 
being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be 
haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the 
plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has 
often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy 
psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



478 THE SKETCH BOOK 

POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 

The preceding tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I 
heard it related at a corporation meeting of the ancient city of 
Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most 
illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentle- 
manly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous 
face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — ^he made 
such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, 
there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or 
three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep a greater part of the 
time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, 
with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe 
face throughout ; now and then folding his arms, inchning his head, ■ 
and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his 
mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon 
good grounds — when they have reason and the law on their side. 
When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and 
silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, 
and, sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceed- 
ingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the brow, what 
was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips 
as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his 
inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass 
slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most 
logically to prove: 

"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it; 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely 
to have rough riding of it. 

"Ergo,i for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

1. Ergo, a Latin formula meaning "therefore." The logic here is 
intentionally fallacious. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 479 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he obser\'ed, that 
all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the 
extravagant — there were one or two points on which he had his 
doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't 
believe one-half of it myself." 



L'ENVOY^ 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call. 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

— Chaucer's "Belle Dame sans Mercie."- 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book, the 
Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence 
with which his first has been received, and of the liberal dis- 
position that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as 
a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them 
by others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good- 
natured race; it is true that each has in turn objected to some 
one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, 
taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total con- 
demnation of his work; but then he has been consoled by 
observing, that what one has particularly censured, another 
has as particularly praised; and thus, the encomiums being 
set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the 
whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been lib- 
erally bestowed upon him; for where abundance of valuable 
advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he 

1. L'Envoy. Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
[Author's Note.] 2. Chaucer's "Belle Dame sans Mercie." This poem, 
ascribed to Chaucer by the earlier editors of Chaucer's works, is now 
known to have been translated from the French of Alain Chartier by 
Sir Richard Rose. Alain Chartier was only about four years old when 
Chaucer died. 

480 



L'ENVOY 481 

should go astray. He can only say, in his vindication, that 
he faithfully determined for a time to govern himself in his 
second volume by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he 
was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent 
counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous; 
another to shun the pathetic; a third assured him that he 
was tolerable at description, but cautioned him to leave nar- 
rative alone; while a fourth declared that he had a very 
pretty knack at turning a story, and was really entertaining 
when in a pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he 
imagined himself to possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in 
turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world 
beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels 
would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time 
sadly embarrassed; when, all at once, the thought struck 
him to ramble on as he had begun; that his work being 
miscellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not 
be expected that anyone would be pleased with the whole; 
but that if it should contain something to suit each reader, 
his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down 
to a varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One 
has an elegant horror of a roasted pig; another holds a curry 
or a devil in utter abomination; a third cannot tolerate the 
ancient flavor of venison and wildfowl ; and a fourth, of truly 
masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those 
knickknacks here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus 
each article is condemned in its turn; and yet, amidst this 
variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the 
table without being tasted and relished by some one or other 
of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this sec- 



482 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ond volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first; 
simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there 
something to please him, to rest assured that it was written 
expressly for intelligent readers like himself; but entreating 
him should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate it, as one 
of those articles which the author has been obliged to write 
for readers of a less refined taste. 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous 
faults and imperfections of his work; and well aware how 
little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of author- 
ship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence aris- 
ing from his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in 
a strange land, and appearing before a public which he has 
been accustomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest 
feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to 
deserve their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude con- 
tinually embarrassing his powers, and depriving him of that 
ease and confidence which are necessary to successful exer- 
tion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages 
him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier 
footing; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, 
surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own 
temerity. 



APPENDIX 

NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the 
dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, 
Pope Gregory, the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo- 
Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, con- 
ceived a fancy for the race, and determined to send missionaries to 
preach the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He 
was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, King of Kent, and 
the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a 
Christian princess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that she 
was allowed by stipulation the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of 
religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk 
with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to 
effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foot- 
hold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the 
open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of 
spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good 
a Christian as his wife; the conversion of the king of course pro- 
duced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of 
Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop of Canter- 
bury, and being endowed with authority over all the British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, king 
of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, 
of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with 
Augustine, was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the 
river side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of 
Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster 
Abbey. Great preparations were made for the consecration of the 
church, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of 
the appointed day, MeUitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp 
and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the edifice 
he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was needless 
to proceed, as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared with sur- 

483 



484 THE SKETCH BOOK 

prise, when the fisherman went on to relate, that the night before, 
as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him, and 
told him that he intended to consecrate the church himself, that 
very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, which 
suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in 
sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and 
clouds of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the boat 
and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, and had a 
miraculous draught of fishes; one of which he was commanded to 
present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle had 
relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the church. 

Millitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirma- 
tion of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and 
beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil sprinkled in various 
places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had 
still any fingering doubts, they were completely removed on the 
fisherman's producing the identical fish which he had been ordered 
by the apostle to present to him. To resist this would have been 
to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was 
convinced that the church had actually been consecrated by St. Peter 
in person; so he reverently abstained from proceeding further in the 
business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a rehgious house which 
he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built 
another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a 
magnificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a recon- 
struction, by Henry III, in 1220, and began to assume its present 
appearance. 

Under Henry VIII it lost is conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. 



RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers 
of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the 
sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones 
of Edward the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their 
sepulcher upwards of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the 
crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During eighteen 
years that he had officiated in the choir, it had been a common 



APPENDIX 485 

tradition, he says, among his brother choristers and the gray-headed 
servants of the abbey, that the body of King Edward was deposited 
in a kind of chest or coffin, which was indistinctly seen in the upper 
part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the abbey gossips, 
however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until the worthy 
narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted to the coffin by the aid 
of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, apparently very strong 
and firm, being secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the 
coronation of James II, the coffin was found to be broken, a hole 
appearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the work- 
men. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred deposi- 
tory of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance 
came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith 
repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, of congenial 
tastes, who were desirious of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a 
ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been repre- 
sented, a hole in the Ud about six inches long and four inches broad, 
just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and groping 
among the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a crucifix, 
richly adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain twenty-four 
inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who were 
equally surprised with himself. 

"At the time," says he, "when I took the cross and chain out of 
the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very 
sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of 
teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a 
coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin white 
linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh; 
but the least stress put thereto showed it was well-nigh perished. 
There were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I 
found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride 
than the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about 
in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face 
with him through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and 
chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise 
him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and 
fearing that the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other 
hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine 
about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew 
forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to King 



486 THE SKETCH BOOK 

James- The king subsequently had the old coffin inclosed in a new 
one of great strength: "each plank being two inches thick and 
cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains 
(i688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be 
offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a descrip- 
tion of it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," says 
a British writer, "now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few 
faint traces of its sparkUng decorations inlaid on solid mortar catch 
the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor. , . . Only two of 
the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, and 
covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within 
reach; only the lozenges of about a foot square, and five circular 
pieces of rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE 
SKETCH 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his 
second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret 
Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble 
family; for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. 
This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many 
Bookes do well testify ; she was a most virtuous, and loving and 
careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his banishment 
and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from him in his 
solitary retirement. 



In the wintertime, when the days are short, the service in the 
afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of 
the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral 
and the transepts are in profound and cavernous darkness. The 
white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the 
open slats and canopies; the partial illumination makes enormous 
shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the surrounding 
gloom catches here and there upon a sepulchral decoration or monu- 
mental effigy. The swelhng notes of the organ accord well with the 
scene. 



APPENDIX 487 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the 
old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their 
white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the 
abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches 
and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a dis- 
tant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a 
strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a 
mural monument of one of the Pultneys. 



EDITOR'S APPENDIX 
The Story of Peter Klaus 

The story of Peter Klaus, which offered the suggestion for Irving's 
Rip Van Winkle, appeared in print first in Otmar, Volkssagen aus 
dem Harze, Bremen, 1800, where Irving probably read it. It is 
reprinted in Graesse, Sagenbuch des Preussischen Staats, Glogau, 1868, 
pp. 437-439, from which text the present translation is made. It 
will be observed that Irving really creates the characters and the local 
setting of his story, although the framework of the action and the 
suggestion for some of the details are given in the German Mdrchen. 
The translation is as close as it could be in consistency with good 
English idiom. 

Peter Klaus, a goatherd of Sittendorf, pastured his herd on the 
Kiphauser mountain. He was accustomed to let them rest in the 
evening at a place which was surrounded by an old wall, and here 
he would always count them. He had observed for several suc- 
cessive days that one of his finest goats always disappeared from the 
rest of the flock when they came to this place, but afterwards it 
would as mysteriously return, tie watched this goat closely and one 
day saw it creep through a crack in the old wall. He followed it 
and found it in a hollow or cave where it was contentedly picking 
up grains of oats as they fell, one by one, from the roof of the cave. 
Peter looked up, shook his head over this rain of oats, but with all 
his looking could discover nothing. Finally, however, he heard the 
whinnying and stamping of spirited horses, from whose mangers the 
oats must have fallen. For some time Peter stood there, astonished 
to find horses in this entirely uninhabited mountain. As he stood lost 
in wonder, there appeared a man who silently beckoned Peter to 
follow him. They ascended several steps and passed over a court, 
surrounded by a wall, into a deep hollow which was inclosed by high 
rock chffs. Only a dim twihght made its way through the thick 
trees which overhung the sides of the cUffs. 

Here Peter found, on a cool, level bowling green, twelve solemn 
knights, playing nine pins. None of the knights said a word, but 
Peter was silently ordered to set up the pins. At first he did this 
with shaking knees, stealing glances now and then at the long beards 
and the slit jackets of the old knights. Gradually, however, he grew 
more famihar with his strange surroundings, and bolder, and gazing 
about, finally ventured to take a drink from a tankard of wine stand- 

488 



EDITOR'S APPENDIX 489 

ing near him, the odor of which had delighted his nostrils. He was 
much revived, and as often as he felt himself getting tired, he 
refreshed himself from the never-failing tankard. Sleep finally over- 
powered him. When he awoke he found himself in the green spot 
surrounded by the old wall where he was accustomed to let his goats 
rest in the evening. He rubbed his eyes, but could discover neither 
his dog nor his goats. He was astonished, too, at the high grass and 
at shrubs and trees which he did not remember ever having seen 
there before. Shaking his head he wandered over all the paths and 
ways along which he had been in the habit of leading his goats, but 
found not a trace of them. Far below he beheld Sittendorf, and 
finally hastened down to inquire after his flock. 

The people whom he met at the entrance to the village were all 
strangers to him, were dressed differently and spoke differently from 
his old acquaintances. They all stared at him, and when he asked 
about his goats, they stroked their chins. Involuntarily Peter did 
the same and found, to his astonishment, that his beard had grown 
a foot longer. He began to think that he and all the world around 
him were bewitched, and yet he recognized the mountain down which 
he had come as the Kiphauser, and the houses of the village with 
their gardens and yards were all familiar to him. Several boys, also, 
gave the name of the village as Sittendorf in answer to the question 
of some passers-by. 

Shaking his head, Peter went on into the village towards his own 
house. He found it much decayed, and in front of it lay a strange 
shepherd boy in a torn coat, and beside him a starved dog which 
showed its teeth and snarled when Peter called to it. Peter passed 
through the opening which once was closed by a door, but found 
everything so desolate and empty within, that, calUng his wife and 
children by name, like a drunken man he staggered out through the 
back door. No voice answered him. 

Women and children soon gathered around the old man with the 
gray beard and inquired whom he was looking for. To ask others 
before his own house about his wife or his children or about him- 
self, seemed so strange to Peter that he mentioned the first name that 
came into his head, "Kurt Steffen." Most of them gazed silently at 
him, but finally an old woman said: "For twelve years he has lived 
at Sachsenburg; you can't get there today." "Velten Meier," said 
Peter. "God help him," said an old crone on crutches, "for fifteen 
years he has been lying in the house that he wall never leave." With 
a shudder Peter recognized in the old woman a neighbor of his who 
seemed suddenly to have grown very old; but he had no desire to 
ask any more questions. 



490 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Just then there pressed through the throng of onlookers, a bold 
young woman with a boy of one year in her arms, and little girl of 
four at her side, all of whom were the very image of Peter's wife. 
"What's your name?" asked he, astonished. "Marie," said the 
woman. "And your father?" asked Peter. "God have mercy on him, 
Peter Klaus. But it is now twenty years since we sought him in vain 
on the Kiphauser mountain, whence his flock came back without 
him. I was then seven years old." 

The goatherd could contain himself no longer. "I am Peter 
Klaus," he cried, "and no other," and took the little boy from his 
daughter's arms. 

All stood as though turned to stone, until one voice after the other 
shouted: "Yes, this is Peter Klaus. Welcome, neighbor, after 
twenty years, welcome." 



HELPS TO STUDY 

(Adapted, and enlarged, from the Manual jor the Study of English 
Classics, by George L. Marsh) 

Life of Irving 

When and where was he born? What was the condition of the 
country at the time (pp. 8, 9) ? 

Where were his early years spent? Describe some of the occu- 
pations of his youth which had an influence on his literary work 
(pp. 10, 11). 

What was the extent of his education? For what profession did 
he study? With what success (p. 12)? 

Tell something of the extent and duration of Irving's travels 
(pp. 12, 19, etc.). 

What positions did he hold in the diplomatic service of the 
United States? 

Where did he live and what was his occupation after returning 
to America (p. 21) ? 

When did he die? 

Irving's Works 

What was his first important literary venture (p. 13) ? Its 
success? 

What is noteworthy about the purpose, tone, and effect of the 
Knickerbocker History (pp. 14, 15) ? 

When and under what circumstances was The Sketch Book written 
(p. 16) ? Compare with the circumstances under which many of 
Scott's novels were written. What was the success of The Sketch 
Book? Its results for Irving? 

When did Tales of a Traveler appear? With what success (p. 
20)? 

491 



492 HELPS TO STUDY 

What important works resulted from Irving's sojourn in Spain 
(p. 21)? 

What are the most important works which he wrote after his 
return to America? 

What, in general, was the condition of American literature be- 
fore Irving began to write (pp. 27, 28) ? What foreign recogni- 
tion did he secure for it (see many places in the Introduction) ? 

What famous English authors were Irving's models in his essays? 
What is to be said, however, about his essential originality (pp. 
29 ff.) ? 

The Sketch Book 

What is the general plan of the book (p. 17) ? Was it influenced 
by the circumstances of publication? Are the essays thrown to- 
gether in a haphazard fashion, or is there a well-defined plan of 
construction? 

What is the model upon which The Sketch Book may be said to 
have been founded? A very interesting comparison may be made 
between Irving's work and The Spectator, by studying in the 
classroom first Addison and Steele's essays and folowing these with 
Irving's. Compare also the essays of Lamb and Hazlitt. 

Are books consisting of collected essays and stories found in 
the literature of today? What similar book of the last twenty-five 
years do you know? 

What is the relation of these essays to magazine articles of the 
present? Was the form popular in Irving's own day? Why did 
he turn to it? (Cf. pp. 29, 30.) Why was the book popular? 
Would it be so if issued today? Why was it received with such 
favor in England? 

What various literary forms are found in the collection? Group 
them. Is there any great difference in the method of handling the 
various themes? What general characteristics are found in almost 
all the essays? Do you find many instances of repetition? 

Is the range of subject-matter broad? Is it usually of great 
importance? Is the thought ever startling or unusual? If not, is 
this a defect? Are the essays formal or informal? 

Do you find conscious attempts to create a tone, or an impres- 
sion? How is this usually accomplished? Is the same "trick" 
often repeated? 



HELPS TO STUDY 493 

THE author's account OF HIMSELF 

Compare Spectator No. 1 (Lake Classics ed. of The Sir Roget 
de Coverley Papers, pp 49 ff.). 

THE VOYAGE 

Is this a narrative or an essay ? Is the name of the boat on which 
Irving sailed or the date of the sailing given? Of what signifi- 
cance is this fact? Why is the short narrative on page 54 intro- 
duced? Is the impression created naturally or by force? The 
second paragraph on page 52 is a good illustration of Irving's 
general point of view. Note the contrast in tone on page 56. 
Point out other examples of this same device. Note the slightly 
touched personal sketches at the close. Do you find other instances 
of this method? 

ROSCOE 

What was the interest of the Atheneum to Irving? Why was 
Roscoe interesting to him? Is this a biography, or are the per- 
sonal details merely excuses for Irving to express his thoughts on 
various subjects? Is this transition from the particular to the 
general found in other essays? 

THE WIFE 

Should be read with "The Pride of the Village" and "Philip of 
Pokanoket." What general characteristics have the three tales in 
common? Do you agree with the criticism of these stories given 
on pages 25, 26? Compare pages 167 ff. 

RIP VAN WINKLE 

What is the purpose of the introductory description of the Kaat- 
skills? What are the most important dramatic situations that you 
find in this story? What effect is intensified by having Rip's 
return take place at the time of an election? How is the super- 
naturalism of the tale modified or qualified? What do you think 
of the suggestion that a present-day writer of this story would 
probably begin with Rip's return and work backward? Do you 
think such a story would be more, or less, effective? W^hat details 
in the story are appropriate to the purported narrator, Diedrich 
Knickerbocker? 



494 HELPS TO STUDY 

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 

Does this differ from the other essays in tone and in purpose? 
How does it save itself from being offensive to the English reading 
public? The whole essay is a good illustration of Irving's common 
sense. Compare Lowell's essay, "On a Certain Condescension in 
Foreigners." Consider to what extent either Irving's or Lowell's 
remarks apply to the present time. 

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

Compare "Rural Funerals," "The Country Church," etc.; also 
"The Author's Account of Himself" (p. 47). Into how many 
words might you condense the first paragraph and still retain the 
sense and meaning? Does the essay proceed in a leisurely or a 
hurried manner? Is the picture drawn real or ideal? Has the 
author purposely omitted the other side of country Hfe? Of what 
period of English literature is the banishment of all good from the 
city to the country characteristic? Compare Goldsmith's Deserted 
Village (English Poems in Lake Classics). 

THE BROKEN HEART 

Who is meant by "Young E— " (p. 125) ? Were "the troubles in 
Ireland" not long before Irving's time in any way similar to present- 
day troubles? 

THE ART OF BOOKMAKING 

Of what use does Irving consider the library? Is the point of 
view consistent throughout? Is the picture overdrawn? Compare 
"The Mutability of Literature." 

A ROYAL POET 

Rossetti's ballad, "The King's Tragedy," deals with the death 
of James I of Scotland. The passage from Chaucer mentioned on 
page 149 is to be found on pages 104-106 of Greenlaw's Selections 
from Chaucer (Lake Classics). See also Dryden's Palamon and 
Arcite (Lake Classics ed., pp. 54-58), 

THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

Compare "The Widow and Her Son," "A Sunday in London," 
"Rural Life," and Spectator No. 112 (Lake ed. of The Sir Roger 
de Coverley Papers, p. 106). 



HELPS TO STUDY 495 

THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

Compare the preceding and following essays. Discuss the criti- 
cism at the bottom of page 26. 

THE boar's head TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 

A Shakespearean background is required for this essay, especially 
a knowledge of the plays in which Falstaff appears — Henry IV 
(both parts), Henry V (Lake Classics ed.), and The Merry Wives 
of Windsor. 

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

Compare "The Art of Bookmaking," (pp. 129 ff.). 

RURAL FUNERALS 

Compare "Rural Life in England," "The Country Church," etc. 

THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 

Compare the preceding essay. Is the setting natural? Effective? 
Is the Btory t,old in the language of the traveler or the writer? 
What is the significance of the names? Is the supernatural intended 
to be convincing? Compare the use made of it in "Rip Van 
Winkle" and in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." See Introduction, 
pages ?>2, Z2). 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

Compare this description with that given in Baedeker's (or any 
other) handbook for London. What is the distinction between de- 
scription for information and description for impression? Define 
the impression created here. Compare Addison's essay on West- 
minster Abbey {de Coverley Papers, Lake Classics ed., pp. 20S ff.). 

CHRISTMAS 

Read with the four following essays. What other essays are 
similar in tone and in subject matter? What was the chief interest 
to Irving of rural customs? 

LONDON ANTIQUES 

Do you find repetition here? Is it becoming monotonous? What 
is the purpose and effect of the "P. S."? 



496 HELPS TO STUDY 

LITTLE BRITAIN 

Describe a section or a quarter of any city or town known to you, 
in imitation of "Little Britain." Describe some character after 
the manner of the "cheesemonger." Are there any modem adap- 
tations of the incident of the Lamb family (pp. 340 ff.) ? 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Compare this essay with Sidney Lee's description of the town 
in his Life of William Shakespeare. What is the difference in pur- 
pose and effect? 

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

This essay and "Philip of Pokanoket" may be read in connec- 
tion with Cooper's Last of the Mohicans. Compare "The Wife." 

JOHN BULL 

To what extent does the characterization of "John Bull" apply 
today ? 

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

Compare "The Wife" (pp. 68 ff.), "Philip of Pokanoket" (pp. 383 
ff.), and discuss the criticism on pages 25, 26. 

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

What was Irving's purpose in making the scene of this story a 
place like Sleepy Hollow? Are all the details about Ichabod Crane 
essential to the development of the story? What justification is 
there for them? How are we prepared by the character of Ichabod 
for the climax of the story (pp. 447, 448) ? By the character of 
Brom Bones (pp. 454, 455) ? Is the apparently supernatural end 
of the story actually explained, or is explanation only hinted at? 

Irving's Style 

Irving's style is justly regarded as a model. It may safely be 
used as such. The following topics will suggest others that may lead 
to style through imitation: 

Describe some village of your neighborhood (cf. pp. 79, 80). 

Describe some place you know, that you have been reminded of 
in reading Irving. 



HELPS TO STUDY 497 

Does Rip Van Winkle remind you of anyone you have ever seen? 
Tell about that person. 

How would Rip Van Winkle feel, do you think, at River 

or in woods (use local names) ? Tell about his taking a 

walk there. 

Write an essay on: "Some People Irving Ought to Have Known"; 
"Some Places Irving Would Have Liked to Visit." 

Tell about a man who in some way sleeps for several years 
and then wakes up to find everything changed; make him different 
from Rip (a hard-working business man, possibly), make him in- 
terested in the things changed and the change, and bring the sleep 
on in another way (sickness, blow on the head). 

Let the student reproduce a page of Irving from memory; so far 
as possible the matter should be fresh without his remembering 
the form. Now let him compare. Let the class pick out in a short 
paragraph the words they cannot or do not use. Let them give the 
nearest synonyms they know. Then let them do some dictionary 
work. In descriptions let them pick out the words used to express 
the same thing (variety). Comparison with other authors is hardly 
profitable. However, Irving's descriptions may be compared with 
those in a geography to show that Irving uses a class of words 
(emotional) not there employed; similarly with a history. 

On choice of words, see Herrick and Damon, Chap. XVIII. Let 
the teacher from time to time pick out one or two points here for 
illustration and ask the pupils to illustrate them from Irving (or 
whatever author is being read). 

What can you say as to Irving's range of vocabulary? His 
choice of words? Is his style stiff, or colloquial? Is it ever un- 
pleasantly colloquial? Is the style reserved or familiar? Is it ever 
obscure and hard to follow? 



498 HELPS TO STUDY 

THEME SUBJECTS 

1. Life of Irving (pp. 7-22). 

2. Character sketch of Irving (with particular reference to char- 
acteristics indicated in the works read; pp. 7, 18, 22-24, 30, etc.). 

3. Irving and Scott (personal relations; Scott's estimate of Irving, 
etc.; pp. 14, 18, 19, 40-45, etc.). 

4. Irving's place in literature (both English and American; pp. 
26-30, 32, 34). 

5. How a sea voyage today differs from Irving's (pp. 51, 58). 

6. The Kaatskills of today. (Contrast them as in Irving's time; 
pp. 11, 78, 99.) 

7. Dramatic elements in "Rip Van Winkle." 

8. Write your impression of your own city twenty years from 
now (if, like Rip, you should sleep from now until then) . 

9. Joseph Jefferson in "Rip Van Winkle." 

10. Character sketch of Rip Van Winkle (pp. 79 ff.). 

11. A defense of Rip's wife. 

12. Description of some village character of the student's ac- 
quaintance, suggested by Rip Van Winkle or Ichabod Crane. 

13. An editorial for some daily paper against provincialism (sug- 
gested by pp. 101-112). 

14. A visit to a country church (cf. pp. 157-163). 

15. A visit to some historic spot (or a place with literary asso- 
ciations; cf. pp 178 ff.). 

16. A new explanation and ending for "The Specter Bridegroom." 

17. Fellow passengers on a journey (cf. pp. 263 ff.). 

18. Christmas Eve (Christmas Day, or a Christmas dinner) in 
"old Virginia" (New England, or some other locality known to 
the student; cf. pp. 270 ff.). 

19. John Bull in the twentieth century (cf. pp. 403 ff.). 

20. Write a companion piece to "John Bull" — subject, "Uncle 
Sam." 

21. Character sketches of Ichabod Crane; Brom Bones; Katrina 
Van Tassel. 

2. The story of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow (your 
own version). 



HELPS TO STUDY 499 

SELECTIONS FOR CLASS READING 

1. The wreck (pp. 53-56). 

2. Rip Van Winkle's character and home life (pp. 79-84). 

3. Rip and Hendrick Hudson's crew (pp. 85-88). 

4. The awakening (pp. 88-96). 

5. England and America (pp. 107-112). 

6. The story of Robert Emmet (pp. 125-128). 

7. "The Specter Bridegroom" (pp. 222-240). 

8. "Westminster Abbey" (pp. 241-254). 

9. An English Christmas (pp. 255-261). 

10. "The Stagecoach" (pp. 262-269). 

11. Christmas Eve at Bracebridge Hall (pp. 274-283). 

12. An English Christmas dinner (pp. 301-309). 

13. The joys of Little Britain (pp. 336-346). 

14. Wanderings in Stratford-on-Avon (pp. 348-355), 

15. "John Bull" (pp. 405-416). 

16. "The Pride of the Village" (pp. 418-427). 

17. "The Angler" (pp. 431-438). 

18. Ichabod Crane (pp. 442-448). 

19. Ichabod in love (pp. 449-456). 

20. The party at Van Tassel's (pp. 462-468). 

21. Ichabod's journey home (pp. 469-474). 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 

In the following parallel columns are given the most important dates 
in the history of Enghsh and American literature, from the time of 
Shakspere down to 1900. Special care has been taken to include the 
classics commonly read in high schools, so that the historical background 
of any given classic will be apparent from the table: 



AMERICAN 


ENGLISH 




1594-5 Shakspere : Midsummer 




NighVs Dream. 




1596 (or earlier) : Romeo and Juliet. 




1598 (or earlier): The Merchant of 




Venice. 




1599 Heiiry V. 




1599-1600 As You Like It. 



1607 Jamestown founded. 

1608 J. Smith: A True Relation. 
1610 Strachey: A True Repertory. 



1601- 


1700 






1601 


Julius Caesar. 




1602 


Hamlet; Twelfth Night (acted). 




1603 


Queen Elizabeth died. 




1605 


Bacon: Advancetnent of Learn- 
ing. 


n. 
ory. 


1610 


Shakspere: Macbeth (acted). 




1611 


The Tempest (acted) . 




1611 


"King James" Bible printed. 




1612 


Bacon: Essays (first edition 
1597). 




1614 


Raleigh: History of World. 




1616 


Shakspere died. 



500 



APPENDIX 



501 



AMERICAN 

1620 Plymouth Colony founded 

1624 

1630 



J. Smith: The General History 
of Virginia. 



1635 
1636 
1638 



Massachusetts Bay Colony 

founded. 
Bradford: History of Plijnoth 

Plantation begun about this 

time. 
Winthrop: Journal begun, 

ended 1649. 



R. Mather: Journal (written). 
Harvard College established. 
New Haven founded. 



1640 The Bay Psalm Book. 



1644 Williams: The Bloudy Tenent. 



1650 A. Bradstreet: Poems. 



1662 



Wigglesworth: 
Doom. 



The Day of 



1681 
1682 



1689 
1692 



C. Mather: Diary begun. 

Philadelphia founded. 

King William's War. 
Salem witchcraft trials. 



1620 Bacon: Novum Organum. 
1623 Shakspere: Plays (first folio 
edition). 



1627 Drayton: Ballad of Agincourt. 



1633 yixlion: U Allegro and II Pen- 

seroso. 

1634 Milton: Comus (acted). 



1638 Trial of John Hampden. 

Milton: Lycidas (published). 

1642 Theaters closed. 

Browne: Religio Medici. 
1644 Milton: Areopagitica. 

Battle of Marston Moor. 

1648 Herrick: Hesperides. 

1649 Charles I. executed. 

1653 Walton: The Compleat Angler. 
1660 The monarchy restored. 

Pepys: Diary begun; ended 
1669. 



1666 London fire. 

1667 Milton: Paradise Lost. 

1671 Milton : Paradise Regained and 

Samson Agonistes. 
1674 Milton died. 
1678 Bunyan: Pilgrim's Progress. 

1681 Dry den: Absalom and Achi- 

tophel. 

1682 Dryden: MacFlecknoe. 
1688 The English Revolution. 



1697 Dryden: Alexander's Feast. 



502 



APPENDIX 



1701-1800 



AMERICAN 



1701 Yale College established. 
1702-13 Queen Anne's War. 

1702 C. Mather: Magnalia Christi 

Americana. 
1704 Boston News Letter estab- 
lished. 



1722 Edwards: Diary begun. 



1732 Washington born. 

1733 Franklin: Poor Richard's Al- 

manac (begun). 

1741 Edwards: Sinners in the 
Hands of an Angry God. 



1755 Braddock's defeat. 

1756 Woolman: Journal (begun). 
1758 Franklin: "TheWay to Wealth" 

in Poor Richard's Almanac. 



1700 



Dryden: Fables ("Palamo 
and Arcite," etc.). 



1702 Queen Anne ascended thron' 



1704 Swift: Tale of a Tub. 

1709 Steele and Addison: The Ta 
ler begun, 

1711 Steele and Addison: The Spe, 

tator begun. 

1712 Pope: The Rape of the Loon 

1714 Queen Anne died. 

1715 Pope: Translation of the Ilia 

(Books I-IV). 
1719 Defoe: Robinson Crusoe. 
1722 Defoe: Journal of the Plagv 

Year. 
1726 Swift: Gulliver's Travels. 

Thomson: Winter. 
1728 Pope: Dunciad. 
1732 Pope: Essay on Man. 



1740 Richardson: Pamela. 



1742 Fielding: Joseph Andrews. 
1744 Death of Pope. 

1747 Gray: Ode on Eton College, 

1748 Richardson: Clarissa Harlow^ 

1749 Fielding: Toin Jones. 

1750 Johnson: The Rambler (b( 

gun). 

1751 Gray: Elegy Written in 

Country Churchyard. 
1755 Johnson: English Dictionary 



1759 Sterne: Tristram Shandy (b( 
gun). 
Johnson: Rasselas. 



APPENDIX 



503 



AMERICAN 



1765 Godfrey: Juvenile Poems 
(with The Prince of Parthia, 
the first American drama). 
The Stamp Act, 

1771 Franklin: Autobiography, first 

part, written. 
1773 P. Wheatley: Poems. 

1775 Trumbull: M'Fingal. 
Henry: Speech in the Virginia 

Convention. 

1776 The Declaration of Independ- 

ence. 
Paine: Common Sense. 

1783 The Treaty of Paris. 

1785 D wight: The Conquest of 

Canaan. 

1786 Freneau: Poems. 

1789 Franklin: Autobiography, sec- 
ond part, written. 

1796 Washington: Farewell Ad- 
dress. 
1798 Brown: Wieland. 

J. Hopkinson: Hail, Columbia. 



1760 King George III on throne. 
1762 Macpherson: The Pot.ms of 
Ossian. 

1764 Walpole: The Castle of 

Otranto. 
Goldsmith: The Traveller. 

1765 Percy: Reliques of Ancient 

Poetry. 



1766 Goldsmith : Vicar of Wakefield. 

1770 Goldsmith: Deserted Village. 

1771 Encyclopedia Britannica, first 

edition. 
1773 Goldsmith: She Stoops to 
Conquer (acted). 

1775 Burke: Speech on Concilia- 

tion. 
Sheridan: The Rivals. 

1776 Gibbon: Decline and Fall of 

Roman Empire. 

1779 Johnson: Lives of the Poets. 
1783 Crabbe: The Village. 

1785 Cowper: The Task. 

1786 Burns: Poems. 

1789 Blake: Songs of Innocence. 

1791 Boswell: Life of Dr. Johnson. 



1798 Wordsworth and Coleridge: 
Lyrical Ballads ("The An- 
cient Mariner," etc.). 



1801-1900 



1803 The Louisiana Purchase. 



1809 Irving: Knickerbocker's His- 
tory of New York. 



1812-14 War with England. 



1805 


Scott: Lay of the Last Min- 




strel. 


1808 


Scott: Marmion. 


1809 


Byron: English Bards and 




Scotch Reviewers. 


1810 


Scott: The Lady of the Lake. 


1811 


J. Austen: Sense and Sensi- 




bility. 


1812 


Byron: Childe Harold, 1, II. 



504 



APPENDIX 



AMERICAN 

1814 Key: The Star- Spangled Ban- 

ner. 

1815 Freneau: Poems. 



1817 Bryant: Thanatopsis. 

1819 Drake: The American Flag. 

1820 Irving: The Sketch Book. 
The Missouri Compromise. 

1821 Cooper: The Spy. 
Bryant: Poems. 

1822 Irving: Bracebridge Hall. 

1823 Payne: Home, Sweet Home. 
Cooper: The Pilot. 

1824 Irving: Tales of a Traveller. 

1825 Webster: The Bunker Hill 

Monument. 

1826 Cooper: The Last of the Mohi- 

cans. 



1828 Poe: Tamerlane and Other 
Poems. 



1831 Poe: Poems. 

1832 Irving: The Alhambra. 
S. F. Smith: America. 

1833 Poe: MS. Found in a Bottle. 



1835 Drake: The Culprit Fay, etc. 

1836 Holmes: Poems. 
Emerson: Nature. 

1837 Emerson: The American 

Scholar. 
Hawthorne: Twice-Told Tales, 

first series, 
Whittier: Poems. 
1839 Poe: Tales of the Grotesque and 

Arabesque. 



1813 
1814 



1815 
1816 



1817 
1818 
1819 
1820 

1821 



1823 
1824 
1825 

1827 
1828 
1830 

1832 
1833 



1835 
1836 

1837 



ENGLISH 

Southey: Life of Nelson. 
Scott: Waverley. 
Wordsworth: The Excursion.. 
The Battle of Waterloo. 
Byron: The Prisoner of Chil- 

lon and Childe Harold, III. 
Coleridge: Christabel. 
Keats: Poems (first collection). 
Byron: Childe Harold, IV. 
Scott: Ivanhoe. 
Keats: Poems. 

Shelley : Prometheus Unbound, . 
Shelley: Adonais. \ 

De Quincy: Confessions of an 

Opium Eater. i 



Scott: Quentin Durward. 
Lamb: Essays of Elia. 
Landor: Imaginary Conversa- 
tions. 
Macaulay: Essay on Milton. 



A. and C. Tennyson: Poems 

by Two Brothers. 
Carlyle: Essay on Burns. 



Tennyson : 
Lyrical. 



Poems Chiefly 



Death of Scott. ; 

The Reform Bill. ; 

Carlyle: Sartor Resartus. 
Tennyson: Poems. 
Browning: Pauline. 
Browning: Paracelsus. 
Dickens: Pickwick Papers. 

Victoria became Queen. 

De Quincey: Revolt of the 
Tartars. 

Carlyle: The French Revolu- 
tion. 



APPENDIX 



505 



AMERICAN 

1839 Longfellow: Voices of the 

Night. 

1840 Dana: Two Years before the 

Mast. 

1841 Emerson: Essays, first series. 
Longfellow: Ballads and Other 

Poems. 

1842 Hawthorne: Twice-Told Tales, 

second series. 

1843 Foe: The Gold Bug. 
Prescott: Conquest of Mexico. 



1844 Emerson: Essays, second se- 

ries. 
Lowell: Poems. 

1845 Poe: The Raven and Other 

Poems. 

1846 Hawthorne: Mosses from an 

Old Manse. 
1846-48 War with Mexico 

1847 Emerson: Poems. 
Longfellow: Evangeline. 
Parkman: The Oregon Trail. 

1848 Lowell: Vision of Sir Launfal. 

1849 Irving: Oliver Goldsmith. 



1850 Emerson: Representative Men. 
Hawthorne: The Scarlet Let- 
ter. 

1851 Hawthorne: The House of the 

Seven Gables. 
Parkman: The Conspiracy of 
Pontiac. 

1852 Mrs. Stowe: Uncle Tom's 

Cabin. 



1854 Thoreau: Walden. 

1855 Longfellow: Hiawatha. 
Whitman: Leaves of Grass. 



1840 Macaulay: Essay on Clive. 

1841 Browning: Pippa Passes. 
Macaulay: Essay on Warren 

Hastings. 

1842 Macaulay: Lays of Ancient 

Rome. 
Browning: Dramatic Lyrics. 

1843 Dickens: A Christmas Carol. 
Macaulay; Essay on Addison. 
Ruskin: Modern Paiyiters, 

Vol. I. 

1844 E. B. Browning: Poems. 



1845 Browning: Dramatic Ro- 

mances and Lyrics. 

1846 Dickens: The Cricket on the 

Hearth. 

1847 De Quincey: Joan of Arc. 
Tennyson: The Princess. 
Thackeray: Vanity Fair. 
C. Bronte: Jane Eyre. 

1848 Macaulay: History of Eng- 

land, I, II. 

1849 De Quincey: The English 

Mail Coach. 
M. Arnold: The Strayed Rev- 
eller, etc. 

1850 Tennyson: In Memoriam. 
Dickens: David Copperfield. 

1851 Thackeray: Lectures on Eng- 

lish Humorists. 
G. Meredith: Poems. 

1852 Thackeray: Henry Esmond. 

1853 M. Arnold: Poems ("Sohrab 

and Rustum," etc.). 
Mrs. Gaskell: Cranford. 

1855 Browning: Men and Women. 
Tennyson: Maud. 



506 



APPENDIX 



AMERICAN 



1856 Motley: Rise of the Dutch 
Republic. 
Curtis: Prueandl. 



1858 Longfellow : Courtship of Miles 
Standish. 
Holmes: Autocrat of the Break- 
fast Table. 



1861-65 The Civil War. 



1862-66 Lowell: Biglow Papers, 11. 
1863 Longfellow: Tales of a Way- 
side Inn. 



1865 Whitman: Drum Taps. 

1866 Whittier: Snow-Bound. 

1868 Hale: The Man Without a 
Country, etc. 



1870 Bret Harte: The Luck of 

Roaring Camp, etc. 

1871 Howells: Their Wedding 

Journey. 



1873 Aldrich: Marjorie Daw, etc. 

1876 Mark Twain: Tom Sawyer. 

1877 Lanier: Poems. 



ENGLISH 

1856 Macaulay: Essays on John- 

son and Goldsmith. 
E. B. Browning: Aurora Leigh. 

1857 Hughes: Tom Brown's School 

Days. 



1859 Tennyson: Idylls of the King. 
Dickens: A Tale of Two Cities. 
G. Eliot: Adam Bede. 
Meredith: Ordeal of Richard 

Feverel. 
Darwin: The Origin of 
Species. 

1860 G. Eliot: The Mill on the 

Floss. 

1861 G. Eliot: Silas Marner. 
Reade: The Cloister and the 

Hearth. 
Palgrave: The Golden Treas- 
ury. 

1862 Meredith: Modern Love, etc. 

1863 G. Eliot: Romola. 

1864 Browning: Dramatis Personae. 
Swinburne: Atalanta in Caly- 

don. 
1865- Ruskin: Sesame and Lilies . 
1866 Ruskin: A Crown of Wild 

Olive. 

1868 Browning: The Ring and the 

Book. 
1868-70 Morris: The Earthly Para- 
dise. 

1869 Tennyson: The Holy Grail, 

etc. 

1870 D. G. Rossetti: Poems. 

1871 Swinburne: Songs Before Surv- 

rise. 

1872 Tennyson: Gareth and Lynette, 

etc. 

1873 Arnold: Literattire and Dogma. 
1876 Morris: Sigurd the Volsung. 



APPENDIX 



507 



AMERICAN 



1879 Cable: Old Creole Days. 
Stockton: Rudder Grange. 

1881 Whittier: The King's Missive. 



1886 H. Jackson: Sonnets and 

Lyrics. 

1887 M. E. Wilkins: A Humble 

Romance, etc. 

1888 Whitman: November Boughs. 



1890 E. Dickinson: Poems, first 

series. 

1891 Whitman: Goodbye, My Fancy. 



1898 War with Spain. 



1878 
1879 



1881 

1882 

1883 
1886 

1887 

1888 

1889 



1891 
1892 
1893 



ENGLISH 

Stevenson: An Inland Voyage. 
Stevenson: Travels with a 

Donkey. 
Meredith: The Egoist. 
D. G. Rossetti: Ballads and 

Sonnets. 
Stevenson: N'ew Arabian 

Nights. 
Stevenson: Treasure Island. 
Stevenson: Kidnapped. 

Stevenson: The Merry Men 

("Markheim," etc.). 
Kipling: Plain Tales from 

the Hills. 
Barrie: Auld Licht Idylls. 
Browning: Asolando. 



Kipling: Life's Handicap. 
Tennyson died. 
Conington: Translation 

Aeneid published. 
Barrie: Two of Them. 



1901 Queen Victoria died. 



of 



